


go your own way

by minarchy



Series: details in the fabric [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Dark Character, Dark!Uther, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Hiatus, M/M, Violence, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-21
Updated: 2011-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-27 16:46:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 32,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/297943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minarchy/pseuds/minarchy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur is the excommunicated son of Uther pendragon, recently returned to Camelot to reclaim what is rightfully his, with Merlin as his bodyguard; Morgana is his alcoholic sister, Gwen the only sane one amongst them, and there are powers moving within Camelot that do not welcome their return.</p>
            </blockquote>





	go your own way

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [merlin and mafia aus (art)](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/5929) by steam_pilot. 



> the characters and their characterisations are only canon-compliant up to season one, with the occasional addition of season two.

Arthur Pendragon was a dangerous prick.

He was, as far as the Albion underworld went, an unknown entity. His father, the late, great Uther Pendragon, had been far easier to define: twisted by hate and grief after his wife's death, he had ruthlessly built up a vast empire; even the Mercian Mayor was in his pocket. His son and only child, who looked so much like the lost beauty that was Igraine, had been kept separate from the Business, and sent away for his education. He distanced Arthur from him as much as possible; this may well have been his final, fatal mistake.

No one said it, but everyone was thinking it, and it was whispered between the walls: Arthur Pendragon had murdered his father. And he had not done it alone, for Uther was easily capable in defending himself, even against a renegade son. Arthur's shadow would mostly certainly have helped him. The father would never have associated with assassins; the fact that Arthur did was all the more worrying.

Edwin Muir knew all this as he walked through the cold, empty corridors of the warehouse in the dirtiest docks' district. But he also knew that Arthur had inherited none of Uther's empire upon his death; instead, it had been divided up amongst his closest colleagues. So, Edwin reasoned, Arthur needed him. Needed his expertise, need the enterprise if he was ever to gain the power that went hand-in-hand with his name. So he ignored the instincts that had served him so well throughout his life, quelled the prickle of fear that ran down his spine as he entered the large, dark room, and saw Pendragon seated at the head of the table.

"Edwin," said Arthur, relaxed and effortlessly poised, resplendent in his tailored Armani. Edwin took the seat opposite him, glancing up at the bodyguard that stood behind Pendragon's right shoulder.

Merlin Emrys was an oddity, even within the circles Edwin travelled. His last known employment had been with a cocky young entrepreneur, William Beck, which was terminated suddenly when Beck turned up dead at his apartment. His clean apartment, locked from the inside. Emrys had walked away Scot-free; no one dared ask too many questions. The boy, for he could not be older that his current master and most likely was a year or two younger, stood back straight and face impassive, but he gave off that empty, careless precision that put peoples' teeth on edge. With his pale skin and high cheekbones, he had an almost ethereal quality about him, and Edwin was sure that the hands that were clasped behind his back were slender and long-fingered.

"I have a business proposition for you, Pendragon." Giving him a prefix would have been too humbling, especially for a first encounter. If he had inherited Uther's empire… "As I understand, you need stock. Inventory. And I hear there's a shipment entering port soon."

Pendragon was watching him, the hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Edwin said nothing, waiting him out. He had played this game a long time; he knew the rules.

Eventually, Pendragon said, "And where would you have obtained this information?" His voice was light, but the threat that ran just below the surface was all too real. Despite himself, Edwin glanced at Emrys again. He had not moved a muscle.

"I have my sources."

"Ah, yes. Ears on the street, if you will." Pendragon seemed slightly amused by the whole situation; his expression was plucking straight at Edwin's temper, and he could feel himself becoming angry, forced himself to remain calm. "Then you know what it is that I want you to do." Not a question. Edwin got the impression that Pendragon was not one to ask questions.

"My nominal fee is five hundred. Per day. After that, then there will be a token fee for necessary out-of-pocket expenses, damage assessment…" He stopped. Pendragon was looking amused again.

"Perhaps you misunderstand me." Pendragon's voice was irritatingly calm, condescending. "You will do this for me as a favour, to show your – goodwill. After that, if I deem that you have fulfilled your contract to all satisfaction…"

Edwin found himself on his feet. He felt the shadows around him thicken; he still had his tricks, bodyguard be damned. No one spoke to Edwin Muir like he was some sort of lackey! He opened his mouth to spit words of pain, hatred, suffering, _impotence_ …

Arthur looked sideways at Merlin as he straightened his shirt, ignoring the body that was slowly being surrounded in a pool of its own blood. The assassin was replacing the gun within his jacket, face expressionless. As he checked the exit for Arthur to leave, the blond man caught sight of Merlin's shadow against the wall, and suppressed a shiver. Sometimes, he thought he would never understand the young, pale man walking close beside him, hand on his back as he got into the car.

Sometimes, he wasn't sure he wanted to.

 

The gleaming silver Bentley pulled up outside the sandstone, seven-story hotel, and Arthur lead the way into the lobby, Merlin's constant presence calm and assuring at his back. A brief nod of acknowledgement to the desk clerk and they were in the lift, Merlin still and composed as Arthur pulled his shirt sleeves straight. Penthouse: thirteen quick steps to a door that shouldn't lead anywhere and then through, Merlin's left hand on the doorknob and right hand in the small of Arthur's back, pushing him forward.

The door shut behind them with a click, and Arthur noticed the steady fall of rain on this part of the country. Both men stepped into the apartment, loosening ties and undoing cufflinks.

"It was stupid idea." Merlin's voice was cold and pointed, his back rigid towards Arthur.

"It was necessary," he replied. "Edwin was in Callan's pay, and a powerful sorcerer. He had to be angry enough to drop his guard…"

Suddenly Merlin was there, too close, right up in his face. "You could have _died_ ," he hissed, bright blue eyes saying everything he could not. _What if I wasn't fast enough_? _What if I couldn't save you_? Arthur's face settled almost automatically into a lazy, cocksure grin.

"Don't be ridiculous, Merlin," he said, hand touching the join between neck and jaw. He leant forwards, breath ghosting against his ear. "No one's faster than you." He took the lobe between his teeth, and felt Merlin collapse against him, hands going straight for his belt.

This always happened. Despite his power, Merlin was constantly afraid of messing up; Arthur did not know what future he saw in his dreams, but some nights he would wake up gasping and sweating and Arthur did not know how to comfort him. So he did this instead, and it seemed to be enough. He understood that Merlin needed to touch him, needed to reassure himself that Arthur was okay, Arthur was alive, Arthur was _still here_ and Merlin had not failed. When they had first done it, Arthur had agreed for the release it gave him, seemed to give them both. He had not meant for it to turn into anything else.

But now he was arching up into Merlin's hand as he palmed him through his boxers, one hand sliding under Merlin's shirt, the other tangled in his hair, dragging his face down to lock their lips together. He knew when things had changed: when Merlin was stripping him of his bloodstained shirt with shaking fingers, breath coming quick and short, lips touching every scrape and bruise as they revealed themselves to him. And Arthur had reached out and pulled him closer, kissed him as he came apart under him.

"Bed," he gasped, desperate to make it to the mattress before he lost all coherent thought. Last time that had happened, they had rucked on the floor, leaving bruises and carpet burn. Arthur had very little desire to repeat the experience, if he could avoid it. He felt Merlin grin and moan against his neck at the same time, and then the disconcerting sense of teleporting. He staggered, dizzy from the transport, and fell backwards onto the bed, holding onto Merlin tight enough to pull him down as well.

The familiar smell of Merlin filled his nostrils as the other man leant down to kiss him, and Arthur bucked up against him, hands reaching down to grab hold of Merlin's hips. They rutted against each other, hands everywhere as their tongues tangled and fought, until Arthur could not take it any more. Separating their mouths, he attempted to speak when Merlin attacked his neck. Forcing himself to concentrate rather than just come in his pants, he pushed at Merlin's hips. "Off," he growled, unable to stop himself rubbing up against the other man.

Merlin made to get up, but Arthur rolled his eyes as best as he could and pulled him back down. "Not you, idiot," he said, lips against Merlin's ear. "Your clothes." He smirked as he heard Merlin whimper when his tongue flickered out to lick the delicate shell of his ear, and then swore softly as he felt the fabric of his shirt unravelling against his skin. "That was Armani," he said, between kisses. "Worth more –" kiss "than your -" kiss "entire –" his head thunked back against the pillows as Merlin's tongue decided to do something sinful to his nipple "paycheque."

"I know," said Merlin, grinning up at him before closing his teeth around the overstimulated skin. "But I figured you wouldn't want to wait."

Arthur could only watch and buck up against Merlin for a few moments as he watched the silk of the other man's shirt disintegrate across his back. Coming back to himself suddenly, he grabbed a fistful of Merlin's hair and yanked him back up so they were face-to-face, before swivelling his hips – and _oh_ , delicious friction – putting him on top.

Merlin grinned up at him, the colour high on his cheeks, hair mussed and lips swollen, eyes slightly out of focus, and Arthur could have come just then, just looking at him. But he bit down on the impulse, stabbing it silent with his beaten-in self-control, and reached to the bedside cabinet for the lube. One finger, and Arthur could barely watch Merlin's expression change. Two, and he scissored to stretch him, fingers grazing that sweet spot that caused Merlin to buck up towards him and down onto his hand all at once, cock ramrod straight and weeping.

"ArthurpleaseArthurGodplease…"

Hands shaking (since when was he nervous? Oh God, and Merlin was looking at him like he was the world and all its glories wrapped up in silver ribbon…), Arthur slicked himself up, pressing down at the base to give him a bit more control, a bit more time. He paused at the entrance, head of his cock just nudging against the slick hole, and looked at Merlin. Always the same; _I don't want to hurt you_. And Merlin's constant reply, words unnecessary: _You won't_. And _I trust you_. And then he was in, had to bite down hard on his lip, taste blood on his tongue, to stop himself just slamming blind into the tight, wet heat.

Fingers barely touching his skin, forcing his head up; but Arthur did not want to look, because if he met Merlin's eyes then he would be lost to the sensations and _he did not want that dammit_. So he pulled out, and thrust back in, building up a rhythm, eyes screwed shut. He felt Merlin's fingers touch his lips, stroke down his chest.

"GodArthuryesArthur _yes_ …"

Heels pressed into his back as Merlin wound his long legs around him, urging him on. And Arthur opened his eyes.

Merlin, stretched out below him, pale and glowing and _oh so beautiful_ , blue eyes catching his as his teeth catch his lower lip, and then Arthur _moved_ and his eyes rolled back.

"YesArthuryesArthurArthur _Arthur_ …"

He bent down over their bodies, kissed Merlin's nose and tried to breathe through his heart clenching at the sound of his name coming from his lips, like a litany, like a prayer. Then he was coming, and breathing seemed immaterial as lights danced in front of his eyes. He noticed, dimly, that Merlin must have come just before, without encouragement, because their chests when they meet were sticky and salt-slick. He pulled himself out, slowly, and lay down next to Merlin, tracing the edges of his sleep-slurred, effortless smile with one callused thumb as he reached around and pulled them flush against each other. A moment's wriggling on Merlin's part as he snuggled up to Arthur, then butterfly kisses along his collarbone as Arthur slipped into sleep.

Merlin needed this; Arthur wanted it. So they were as tangled as each other, and neither seemed to mind.

 

"I’m not letting this go."

They were standing in the kitchen, eating Merlin-warmed Chinese for breakfast, leftover from earlier in the week. There had not been much time for food shopping. Arthur sighed around his mouthful of chicken.

"I’m not going to _explain_ myself to you, Merlin," he started, before realising just how much like Uther he sounded. "Look… you know that Edwin was a powerful sorcerer. God only knows what he was into. And we _know_ that he was in Callan’s pay – my father’s _best friend_ , or as close as he ever got to friends."

"No one’s going to raise your father, Arthur." Merlin’s voice a tinge of long-suffering about it, but they had had this discussion before.

"But how do you _know_ …"

"Because the Dragon hates Uther as much as Uther hated me," replied Merlin sharply, fixing Arthur with such an intense look that Arthur quite forgot his argument. Stubbornly, however, Arthur argued anyway. It came naturally around Merlin.

"But…"

"No buts," said Merlin, voice firm. "You’ve got to _let go_ , Arthur. Uther’s dead. Move on."

Arthur’s jaw went tight, and he scowled at the floor. He heard Merlin put down his carton and suppressed an irritated grin when he peered up at Arthur, bent over so he could be seen. Merlin nudged Arthur’s head upright with his own, and they stood like that, sharing the same breath. "No more nightmares."

Arthur huffed a laugh and kissed him. "Like you can talk," he said, gruffly. "And you taste of tofu."

Merlin grinned and picked up his carton to finish his breakfast; spearing a piece of tofu, he dangled it in front of Arthur, who wrinkled his nose. "What’s the matter, macho man? Too _healthy_ for you?"

"Nah," replied Arthur, unable to repress his own grin. "I just enjoy slaughtering innocent animals to service my own cravings. You know me: sweet, soft-nosed cows who never hurt a fly equals blue steak and chips. Yum." Merlin scowled at him. "What’s the matter, _veggie boy_? Too _manly_ for you?"

Merlin rolled his eyes, smirk lining his lips. "Your insults are so pathetic."

"Must be from spending too much time around you."

He only just dodged the chopstick aimed for his face.

"Get dressed, sorcerer. You’ve got shopping to do."

 

The car glided along Main Street, Merlin driving and Arthur pretending not to sulk in the back. He was glowering out of the tinted windows at the last of the big-time drinkers as they staggered home to bed and midday hangover cures; it took a moment for recognition to sink in before he said sharply, "Merlin! Stop the car!"

They had barely slid into a parking space before Arthur was out of the car and pulling a dark-haired woman away from a group of leering men.

"Hey! Man, hey! We was only havin’ some fun," said one.

"Yeah, back off," growled another, making at a grab at the woman. Arthur pushed her into the arms of her friend and wheeled to face the men.

"No," he said, voice low and dangerous, " _you_ back off." The smell of lightning filled the air, and Arthur knew that Merlin was just behind him, quiet and menacing with his unassuming power.

The men, for a moment, looked like they were going to make a fight of it, but then one whispered, short and sharp, "Dude, _dude_ , that’s _Arthur_ fucking _Pendragon_ ," after which they’d slunk off. Having a preceeding reputation had its uses.

"Mor _gana_ ," he said in exasperation, turning to watch her trying to disentangle herself from Gwen. "Isn't she supposed to be on a program?" He caught Merlin's smile as Gwen looked apologetic and helpless all at once.

"I don' need - don' need you t'tell me what to do, Artie Pendragon," slurred Morgana, wine bottle dangling precariously from her fingertips. "Jus' like _Daddy_ , all _bossy_ and _bitchy_..."

"Alright, Morgana. Time to go," intervened Merlin, stepping forward to take her arm, glancing at Arthur's expression - he could feel his temper rising, especially after the quip about Uther. But he could remember the last time that insult was used, when he had replied, "I’d be lucky to be half the man my father is!"

He watched the smile that Gwen and Merlin shared, and felt the first twinges of jealousy in his stomach. Turning sharply, he headed back to the car, getting in the passenger side and ignoring the sounds of Morgana being manhandled into the back seat.

Merlin slid in next to him, glancing at his face - Arthur could feel the tension in his jaw, and tried to relax it, knowing how well Merlin could read him; "Still shopping?"

 

It seemed Merlin trusted him more to stay at the apartment and not go off ‘vigilante-ing and/or getting _yourself killed_ ’ with Gwen and Morgana there. Well, probably Gwen more than Morgana, because the latter was currently having her hair held out of the way whilst she retched down the toilet.

Arthur sat in the living room, scowling at the door that Merlin had left through, knowing there was no way he could follow him that way. Gwen had perfected that ‘make you feel guilty’ look that Merlin had, which meant that he could leave without feeling like a Total Arse. Which Morgana thought he was anyway, and proceeded to tell him whenever she was not heaving.

Morgana stumbled into the room, partially supported by Gwen. He smiled sweetly up at her. "Feeling better?" She flipped him off, and he laughed.

"I don’t suppose you’ve got any food in this place?" she asked, having practically fallen into a chair, almost dragging Gwen with her.

Arthur raised an eyebrow at his step-sister. "Where do you think Merlin’s gone?"

Morgana waved a hand. "I don’t know. I assumed he just…"

He couldn’t restrain a grin. "What? Disappeared into thin air?"

Apparently, Morgana was in a better mood than earlier (Arthur would never understand her moodswings), because she surprised everyone by bursting out with laughter. She looked so ridiculous, lying draped across the armchair, long limbs – that would be ungraceful and ungainly on anyone else, say, _Merlin_ – flung unceremoniously over the arm, that Arthur could not help but join in.

Gwen looked between them fondly, then removed herself with the excuse of making some tea. Morgana snorted. "If she can find it." She had let her head fall back so that her long hair pooled on the floor, eyes closed. Arthur was wondering if she’d fallen asleep like that when her hand groped blindly for her purse and she pulled out a cigarette. "S’okay if I smoke in here?" And, without waiting for a reply, "ta." She lit the cigarette with a snap of her fingers, and Arthur was once again unnerved by her small mastery of magic. She never showed it around Uther.

"Just – don’t smoke in the kitchen," he agreed. "Merlin’s very… precious."

"Despite the fact that he can’t cook," interjected Gwen, returning with three steaming mugs – one tea, for her, and two coffee.

"He can cook more than Arthur can," said Morgana, eyes still closed as she took a drag. Arthur had the good grace to look offended, but did not object. It was true, anyway.

"They haven’t killed each other, then." Merlin was back, closing the door behind him with his foot as he struggled with various carrier bags. Gwen got up to help him.

"Not as yet, no. But I think Morgana is too tired to bother trying, right now."

"Hey!" interrupted Morgana and Arthur at the same time, glaring at each other before Arthur spoke first.

"She so could _not_ beat me, even if she was on top form!"

"Oh, _please_ ," replied Morgana, snarkishly. "‘Daddy, Daddy, Maggie’s _hurting_ me! Make her stop!’"

"‘Uncle! _Uuuuncle_! Arthur’s being _mean_! Make him _play_ with me!’" immitated Arthur in exactly the same tone of voice as Morgana. They both scowled at each other before Merlin and Gwen started to snigger.

"What?!" they said, in unison. They did not get a reply, just a series of vague hand gestures from Merlin as Gwen collapsed in fits of giggles and he held onto the back of the chair to keep himself upright.

" _Merlin_ ," said Arthur, glaring at his friend as he attempted to regain composure.

"It’s just… you too," Merlin said, shaking slightly. "You’re so _similar_."

"We are not!"

Merlin raised an eyebrow. "Shut up," said Arthur, scowling.

"You’re pouting," Merlin stage-whispered over the back of the chair, at which Morgana started to giggle.

"I am NOT!" replied, Arthur, furious; but he could not retain his straight face when Merlin, Morgana and Gwen broke into fresh fits of hysterics. He turned and marched into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

A minute later, he heard the door open quietly and the bed creak and Merlin sat down beside him. "Don’t sulk," he murmured in his ear. "It doesn’t become you." He ran a finger around Arthur’s mouth. "You’ll get frown lines."

"Shut up," Arthur growled, jerking his shoulder in an attempt to dislodge Merlin. It did not work; Merlin was irritatingly tenacious.

"Smile?" he said, hopefully. "Please?"

Arthur tried hard not to look at him, but he caught a glimpse of Merlin’s face out of the corner of his eye; he was pulling the most ridiculously pleading face, and Arthur chuckled before he could stop himself. Sensing victory, Merlin shuffled closer, pressed right up against his back and twisting his head around to kiss Arthur. For a moment, Arthur resisted all attempts by Merlin’s tongue to gain entrance to his mouth, trying hard not to smirk, but gave up embarrassingly quickly. Their tongues met, and Arthur turned so he was half-facing Merlin in order to deepen it further. Merlin was being deliberately elusive, and Arthur growled his dissatisfaction. Merlin grinned.

"Ahem." Morgana was standing in the doorway. Arthur held up a finger. He could _hear_ her roll her eyes. "We’re going to order take-out. Anything you want?" She did not get a response, and turned to leave, saying as she did, "do you think they do Merlin toppings for pizza?" Arthur heard Gwen laugh, but he was too busy pushing Merlin into the mattress to care. They had not done this, like, _all day_.

 

Arthur woke the next morning to the sounds of Morgana blow-drying her hair in the living room. Merlin had decided that she and Gwen should stay with them in the apartment, considering the current climes. Arthur had frowned and _almost_ sulked, and tried hard to come up with reasons why he should not be forced to suffer Morgana’s constant presence for the foreseeable future, but they had all been fielded expertly by Merlin, by now well-practised in dealing with his temper.

"Retho’s in town," she said as soon as he entered the room, robe thrown on over his pajama trousers, heading for the kitchen and whatever he could dig out of the fridge. Usually so determined to have breakfast, this news stopped him dead in his tracks. Merlin, apparently sensing something was wrong even though Arthur had left him still sleeping, appeared at the doorway to the bedroom.

"Retho?" he asked, frowning at his step-sister. "What would he come to Doncaster for?"

There was silence, and Arthur turned in time to catch the holster that Merlin threw at him. He caught the gun that followed one-handed, buckling them on without objection at the expression on Merlin’s face. It was the one that clearly said: _He’s come for_ you _, dipshit_.

Gwen walked out of the spare bedroom with a washbag, wet hair pulled back in a French braid. She handed the bag to Morgana, who pulled out a crystal pendant – and Arthur finally realised what was happening. He ripped open the drawers of the dresser, trying to find a map, whilst watching Merlin check the wards that lay around the room physically and the warning spells around the building with his eyes half-closed and glowing gold.

"Gotcha." He slammed the map down triumphantly on the coffee table, and Morgana held the pendant above it, the silver chain twined around her fingers. Frowning in concentration, she began to spin the pendant around the map with smooth wrist movements, until the momentum was such that it span much of its own accord. But it did not fall, attracted to the position of the person Morgana was seeking, until Merlin stepped over and touched a strand of the chain around her hand. It dropped immediately, and Morgana looked a little disappointed.

"Don’t worry about it," said Merlin encouragingly. "You just need to practise on small things before trying to find things in a huge area. And Retho is really hard to Find; he has all these enchantments and things to prevent people from being able to do so."

Morgana still looked petulant (Gwen was writing down the address of where the crystal had landed), so Merlin grabbed a piece of paper and a pencil, squatting next to the table. "Look, why don’t you try and find me? Like – advanced hide-and-seek," he said, sketching a rough floorplan of the apartment. "It’ll help with your concentration, and improve your precision."

"You’re beginning to sound like Arthur at the firing range," she said, but seemed to agree to the exercise, lifting the pendant into the air above the drawing.

"Ready?" Morgana nodded, and Merlin vanished. Gwen blinked at the spot where he had been, but Morgana was biting her lip in concentration as she swung the crystal above the floorplan. It slammed down with aggressive finality – on the spot where Merlin had previously been standing. Morgana sighed in exasperation and was about to try again when Gwen screamed.

Merlin’s grin was hanging in mid-air. It was shortly followed by the rest of his body, the revisibility process become more rapid as it spread to the edges. Morgana stared; then, with a grin to match Merlin’s, she looked from the page and back to him. "I did it!"

"Told you you could," he said, smiling, and Arthur felt his heart buzz at the warmth in his voice.

 

Retho was one of Uther’s inheriterants, gaining originally only a small section of the empire. However, in the gang wars which followed the death of Uther and the division of the Pendragon dominion, he gained a great deal more business and wealth by destroying his competitors. A man rumoured to have giant blood, Retho stood nigh on seven feet tall, and was built like a brick wall. He had killed many, if not most, of his victims by challenging them to single, bare-knuckled combat. He had yet to lose a fight.

Uther had liked him for that reason: Retho was his prize fighter. It did not matter that Retho rarely played by the rules, because in the circles that he was fighting in the rules rarely had any place. He had most recently been living in Glasgow, where a few people dying from grevious bodily harm was not that unusual. It was said that he was the man who had defeated and killed Menw a’Teirgwaedd, a powerful magician in the service of Jean Malegant, a French gangster who had visited Uther in the hope of wooing Morgana. Either way, he was a very dangerous man to cross.

 

Morgana was still practicing with the pendant when Merlin’s eyes flashed gold and his head whipped round, his body following too slowly as he propelled himself towards the window. Scrambling upright on the chair that he had fallen over, he stared down at the street below.

"Merlin?" said Gwen, worried, peering around from behind the sofa where Arthur had shoved her. The warlock did not reply, but Arthur saw the crease in his forehead and the tilt of his mouth, and knew that something was wrong.

"Merlin," he said, slowly, fear rising like bile in his stomach. "Who would come here that could disturb your wards?"

As if in reply, the door shuddered as force was thrown against it; but it could not be natural, because the door lead to the fake apartment on the other side of the country, and no one could use it to reach this room unless they could use magic.

The door shook again, and Arthur could see cracks forming in the plaster around the door frame. "Merlin!" he said, realisation dawning. "They can’t get through your wards. They’re trying to remove the _whole wall_."

The look Merlin sent him clearly said everything Arthur was feeling. _Oh shit_. Then his eyes glowed gold again, and he pulled Morgana upright. "Hold on to me," he said, voice charged with the otherwordly power that turned the air to crystals and caused rainclouds to boil across the sky. He was starting to glow around the edges now, and Arthur suddenly knew what he was going to do even as he threw himself and Gwen across the room to grip Merlin’s shoulder.

They landed with a thud, Arthur – who was more used to Merlin’s individual style was emergency exit - merely staggering, Gwen and Morgana ending up on their backs. Merlin, however, was lying face down in the grass, panting heavily. Arthur ignored his own queasiness at having been teleported so far, and walked over to him. Well, he attempted to, but at some point found himself on his knees, forcing him to crawl. Gripping Merlin by both shoulders, he pulled him off the ground and held him there, arms wrapped around his torso.

"What the fuck… I thought you said he couldn’t do that!" Morgana was still breathing quickly, clearly trying not to be sick, but her surprise at the teleportation and the fear of whatever had come for them back at the apartment was causing her to be angry.

"No," replied Arthur, as calmly as he was able. "I merely asked if that’s what you thought he’d done."

"Implying…"

"Oh, will you two just _shut up_!?" All three heads jerked around in surprise to stare at Gwen. "Why do you _always_ have to bicker about _everything_? We very nearly just _died_ back there, and all you two can do is fight? Merlin looks almost comatose, for God’s sake!"

Arthur and Morgana glanced at each other, slightly guilty, but Merlin started to laugh. It was gasping, slightly hysterical laughter, probably brought on more by exhaustion that anything else, but before they knew it they were all laughing as well. Arthur did not notice that the air temperature around them had dropped significantly until Morgana threw a well-aimed snowball at the back of his neck. Letting Merlin go (after receiving the A OK pat on the knee), he grabbed a handful of the snow that was falling more thickly by the minute and lobbed it after her retreating back.

Quarter of an hour later, Arthur turned back to see Merlin still lying spreadeagle on the ground where he had left him. Going over quickly, he looked down at his friend. His skin was the same bleach-white as the snow that surrounded him and collected on his eyelashes, and Merlin smiled slightly up at him. He looked near dead from fatigue.

"He’ll have the Hounds on us by now," he said, voice barely audible over the sounds of the girls’ snow fight. Arthur stared for a moment, shocked into inaction, before bending swiftly and throwing one of Merlin’s arms around his shoulders, pulling him upright.

"Morgana! Gwen! We’re going! Now!" he shouted over to them; they must have heard the urgency in his tone, because Morgana did not even stop to argue.

"I’m sorry," Merlin said as they marched onwards through the snow.

"For what?" asked Arthur, repositioning Merlin against him as the other man slipped again in the snow.

"I can’t do much. The teleport… it took most of it out of me," he replied, voice to tired to display much emotion. "I can’t do anything to cover our trail except – " he waved his free arm, indicating the white-out that completely encompassed them. Arthur grunted as they mounted a steep hillock.

"Don’t fret yourself," he said, concentration on the ground in front of his feet. "You can’t do everything, all the time."

They slept that night in a small, thickly wooded copse, the trees knotting their branches over their heads to form an impentatrable barrier to the snow at a thought from Merlin. Arthur lowered him gently against a tree, and set out with Gwen to gather some firewood, which Morgana lit with the same ease that she had her cigarette earlier that day. Arthur hated to think that, only that same morning, everything had been as normal as things got in his life. Now he was on the run, again, and Merlin was not standing like a rock at his side. He was sleeping like the dead, head lolling to one side as exhaustion overtook him. Arthur moved over to him and pulled him closer to the fire, fearing the cold that he felt in Merlin’s skin. Wrapping himself around the thinner man, he held him as close to the heat as he could. He was thankful that Morgana chose not to comment.

Not eating was not helping Merlin’s condition.

The snowfall he had conjured had done a brilliant job at waylaying Morrigan’s Hounds (whose name they dared not speak aloud for fear of conjuring the war goddess herself), but it did very little for foraging. Hunting was not a problem as such, as Arthur was perfectly capable of setting snares for rabbits – or whatever else they caught; Merlin, however, refused to eat it.

"I’m a _vegan_ , Arthur," he had snarled, the last time Arthur had tried to feed him some of the pigeon Morgana had brought down with a well-aimed (and probably magically-aided) stone.

"But there’s _nothing else_ ," Arthur had replied, stubbornness now bordering on desperation. But Merlin had been firm: he would not eat meat, no matter how dire the situation, or how quickly he was free-falling into full blown sickness.

Finally, after three days of walking, they came across a small wood that appeared to have once been an orchard, or something like one. There were apples, and a chestnut, and moss for bedding and tinder. Relief slamming into him like a brick wall, Arthur left the girls to the fire lighting (Morgana had got very good at making the fire last on very little wood, with very little smoke – sometimes none at all – but with a good amount of heat) and headed off to pick some.

The apples were small and hard, and very sharp to the taste, but they were something Merlin could and would eat, and Arthur all but ran back to the campsite to give them to him. Merlin’s health had deteriorated rapidly; he was always shivering, always tired, so pale he bordered on grey. Arthur dropped to his knees alongside his friend and gently shook him awake. Merlin opened his eyes, bright blue peeking through the long lashes – Arthur could see how much of a struggle it was for him. He restrained Merlin when he tried to sit up.

"Whassa matter?"

"Nothing," replied Arthur, voice soothing. "I’ve got you some food." He put one of the apples – the one he had tasted, in the hope that it would not be as hard for Merlin to eat with the flesh already broken – but Merlin turned his head away. " _Please_ , Merlin," Arthur said, voice a desperate whisper as he offered the apple again. "It’s only an apple, I _promise_." Still, Merlin seemed wary. "Please, Merlin," Arthur said again, knowing and not caring that he was begging. "Please – you _have_ to eat. _Please_." Finally, reluctantly, Merlin took a bite, then another, and another. Soon, the entire apple was gone, apart from the core, which Arthur threw far away from their campsite.

"I could roast some of these apples along with the chestnuts," said Gwen from somewhere behind them. "It might improve the flavour." Arthur agreed without really paying much attention, busying helping Merlin come to sit near the fire. Merlin rested there, head on Arthur’s shoulder, and Arthur locked eyes with Morgana when she returned with her findings, daring her to comment. But Morgana looked more relieved at Merlin’s willingness to eat than anything, and she was probably remembering that time Arthur had got pneumonia and refused to go to the hospital. Merlin had gone out his mind trying to get him to eat, to drink, to take the medicine Gaius had prescribed; Uther had visited regularly, apparently, so Merlin was not able to use a spell to calm his temperature and ease his breathing. He knew Merlin still had nightmares about it – he would always be on the receiving end of too much TLC whenever there was the merest hint of a sniffle.

They remained around the fire for the rest of the evening, listening to the pop of the chestnuts roasting, and chatting and laughing like they were just on a camping trip, not desperately trying to make it to Winchester before they were caught by the Hounds. Merlin ate more than all of them, aided by Arthur, and even managed to create a small tableau out of the fire’s sparks. Arthur helped him drink the snow-melt, and was relieved far more than he was willing to admit that there was a touch of colour back in Merlin’s cheeks by the end of the evening.

 

They staggered into the Winchester hideout without further incident, although by mutual agreement the snow had stopped. It may have been winter, but even Hampshire could not cope with violently abnormal weather conditions for long.

Too tired for any formal introduction to the house, Arthur and Merlin left Gwen to attack the fridge and Morgana almost crying over the prospect of a hot shower. They helped each other out of their filthy, stinking clothes and fell into bed, asleep before their heads touched the pillows.

 

Three days later and no word or sign of Retho. Arthur was just beginning to relax, and joined Gwen in hiding all the alcohol in the house from Morgana. Merlin spent most of his time building and reinforcing the protective spells that coated the house – even Arthur, completely blind to magic most of the time, could see the faint glimmer of archaic words and strange, ancient symbols weaving their way through every surface. The magic had even seeped into the pipe system, giving the water an odd aftertaste that Arthur could not quite place. It was as if the memory was from a different time, a different life, and he was not able to reach it. Whenever Merlin drank the water, in whatever form, a distant, fond look came over his face, as if it took him back to somewhere he had been happiest. He would not tell Arthur what he was remembering.

After a week, Arthur told Merlin to stop placing wards. The shimmering, golden runes flowed against his skin, in his breath, swam in his blood. The sensation made him pleasantly light-headed and dizzy, but it was slightly wearing. Morgana seemed to be loving being surrounded in so much magic, and Gwen did not seem to be as badly affected as him. He got the impression from the evasive replies he got from Merlin that this was because most of the magic he had cast was about _him_. Arthur had been forced to physically restrain himself from fucking Merlin into the carpet on several occasions, and on others had been barely able to move, so soporific – post-coital - were the effects of the magic.

But for all Merlin’s careful planning – all the spells, all the precautions, he simply did not bank on the pure wiliness of their opponent.

 

The Hounds had surrounded the house. They were hard to miss, even in their human form – tall and lithe with yellow eyes and cruel mouths. The barriers that Merlin had put on the house kept them at bay, but unless one of them made a move at some point then it would not be long before they called upon a higher power to eradicate them. Merlin was powerful, but even he admitted that he did not know himself enough to combat Her.

Preparations were made. Documents were drawn up, and amulets of concealment and protection were conjured into being. Morgana had wanted to come with them, but Arthur forbade it; besides, what would happen to Gwen, left here alone with the Hounds and the fog outside?

The fog itself was barely natural – it appeared to be limited only to the immediate area around the house, and there was no marsh land or water source nearby for it to be generated from. It hugged the corners of garden to closely, creeping vertically up the invisible wards that Merlin placed to form a roof of grey above them.

Stepping out into this procured coolness only reminded Arthur of what they were facing. Conjuring a fog such as this was no mean feat, and for it to last as long as it had, defying the wind and the sun and the landscape – all of which were against it, one of the reasons this house had been chosen. The house and the garden itself were untouched by it, but beyond its boundaries the fog waited like a wall, a physical barrier against which they must throw themselves.

Merlin’s touch on his shoulder brought him back to himself; Arthur straightened his shirt sleeves and walked forward down the path, Merlin’s presence warm and constant at his back as they stepped into the cold, damp blanket of the fog. Beside and behind them, the figures of the Hounds loomed through the fog, forms human but shadows cast against the bleak background ugly and sinister in the small light that Merlin had created around them. Arthur did not look at them, walking straight ahead through the fog, subconscious mind trying to tell him that if he did not stop now he would be walking smack bang into the house across the street; but he did not, just kept on walking, and he slowly began to realise just how strongly magical this fog was – not only was it a barrier, but it was a path all of its own. And it was taking them directly to Retho, whether he liked it or not.

 

Retho himself seemed inordinately pleased to see them.

"Welcome! Welcome, little Pendragon," he said, with a smile that would have been warm and friendly had it not contained too many teeth. "And the young warlock too! How delightful."

Arthur held out a hand to Merlin, who called the documents to his with a flick of his wrist before handing them over. Retho laughed, clearly amused by the small uses of magic. "These documents must be signed before we have any sort of dealings, Retho," Arthur said, voice clear and crisp and calm as his slid the manila folder across the table to the giant. "They contain a written promise that, now that we have met with you, you will leave my sister Morgana and Guinevere Leodegrance alone. The Hounds that you have in your employ will be removed from their stations and you shall not bother them again."

Retho opened the documents carefully with his massive, callused fingers, and read through them slowly. Arthur waited patiently, for it was common knowledge that Retho was not well educated. The documents had been drawn up with that in mind, and so Morgana had used no ‘legalise’ to tighten any loopholes; instead, she had been forced to try to use simple English to the same effect. They all hoped that it worked.

"Pen," barked Retho, and a small snap-demon appeared with the trademark sound that gave them their name. Retho took the object carefully between two of his fingers and delicately signed the bottom of the papers with a large, crudely written ‘R’.

"And now," he said, clapping his huge hands together to create a sound wave that shook the room, "might I congratulate you on your defeat of Edwin – I’m sure that whimpering swine Callan is shitting himself as we speak."

"Thank you," said Arthur shortly, seating himself opposite the giant. "But is that the only reason you wished to see me? Because you could have just sent a note, and saved us both an awful lot of trouble."

"Of course not!" boomed Retho, enjoying himself far too much, in Arthur’s opinion. "I also wanted to congratulate you on your triumph over Pelause and Damed. That can’t have been easy – I was going to kill them myself, so I should know!"

Retho reminded Arthur of the Muppet Ghost of Christmas Present, only where he was fat and jolly, Retho was broad and muscular. His eyes, beetle-black, contained none of the warmth that the Ghost did. There was something sinister and definitely _wrong_ about Retho, although he had no idea what it was. It was as if he was something that should not quite exist, and now that he did, Nature did not know what to make of him. He repressed the feeling of cold slime trickling down his spine.

"Thank you," he repeated. "But surely there is something more important than that? One doesn’t call upon the Hounds of the Phantom Queen merely in order to give me congratulations."

The look in Retho’s eyes was now distinctly predatory; Arthur could see the flickerings of shadows where shadows should not be out of the corner of his eye. Merlin did not move, but Arthur could still feel him there. It offered him some small comfort.

"Yes, indeed. You are very much like your father, boy," Retho said, the hint of a cruel smile tugging at the corner of his bloated, fish-like lips. "Neither of you were particularly patient when it came to business." Arthur refused to bite, carefully keeping his features neutral, if pleasantly interested, and waited for Retho to continue. "I wished to tell you that My Lady is beginning to find you two somewhat of a nuisance to her. It is difficult to encourage war if someone is killing off all the major parties."

"You have killed many of these ‘parties’, Retho," Arthur interjected, not at all liking where the conversation was going.

"Yes, yes," said Retho dismissively, waving a giant hand as if to bat away his objections. "But I was happy to do so for My Lady’s benefit – you are killing to _avoid_ open warfare. I’ve also heard that you are killing _everyone_ who got a piece of your father’s empire. Which would mean that you wish to kill _me_. And that, I’m afraid, is something I cannot allow." He made as if to stand up, but Arthur heard the sharp report of Merlin’s pistol and saw Retho’s head smack back. Relief swept through him, but was almost immediately replaced by a sense of horror as Retho sat back upright and plucked the bullet from his left eye. He flicked it across the table to him; Arthur saw that it was squashed flat, as if it had collided with something hard.

"Your little friend Gaius tried that one as well," Retho commented, wiping the gunpowder residue from his eye. Arthur felt Merlin tense behind him; Gaius had been missing since the first month after Uther’s death. "But he should have known better. ‘Not even your pretty little spelled bullets can hurt me, sorcerer,’ I told him. And then I killed him- oh so slowly! You would have loved to _hear him scream_ , little warlock." Arthur stood up, knocking his chair over as he reached around to restrain Merlin. Retho laughed, but Merlin had not moved. Arthur caught sight of his shadow, unnaturally huge on the wall behind him. Merlin was flexing his fingers slightly – his shadow had grown long, vicious-looking claws in replacement of them. It was too broad at the shoulders and too thick at the neck to be Merlin, and Arthur thought, just for a moment, that he saw two eyes burning scarlet, like two coals in the middle of the Shadow Merlin’s head.

He stepped back. This was not his fight.

Merlin’s shadow slipped around the walls until it was near enough to Retho’s to strike; long claws lacerated Retho’s face whilst bright, white fire ripped through the air to surround him. Arthur turned away, wishing he could not hear the screams or smell the giant’s flesh burning. The Shadow Creatures gibbered and cackled in the corners, snap-demons materialising to try and get at Merlin, but Arthur calmly shot them as they materialised.

Eventually, the fire went out, and Merlin’s shadow was once more connected to his feet. Arthur turned around to catch Merlin as he bent over, shaking, and gripped the back of his blazer as Merlin fought tears. There would be a time to grieve; standing in a room full of shadows and one burnt-out giant was not it.

"Arthur," said Merlin, as soon as he could. "Retho will heal. You have to – " But Arthur knew. He pulled Retho’s sword out of the floor at the giant’s feet and, in one smooth motion, severed his head from his shoulders. Merlin gripped his shoulders, and they were back near Doncaster. Arthur left Merlin to recover, and walked the two miles to the river. Once there, he threw the head as far as he could out over the water, and watched as it landed. A head should not sink, but Arthur caught sight of – something – reach out a long-fingered hand to grasp in and pull it under.

He watched the sun reflect of the river for a while longer, enjoying the feeling of its warmth on his back. Then he turned, and made his way back to Merlin.

 

It had started off with just watching, the unsettling feeling of eyes on her back, the half-glimpse of fleeing shadows on street corners, in the park. Morgana had not minded that. Not so much. She had not minded enough to tell Uther, anyway, and that was the important thing. By the time she realised that she really did mind, thank you very much, it was far too late. He had already got too much of the wrong idea, his fantasies encouraged by lack of decisive action against him.

The escalation process itself was relatively simple. The watching progressed into letters on her doorstep, notes scrawled on her mail and in her papers, declarations of love and undying fidelity. She had ignored them; being a beautiful ward of powerful businessmen her whole life, Morgana had become used to infactuated stalkers. They were, generally, harmless.

But then the silent phone calls started. She would have just arrived home from work, or the shops, or seeing Gwen, when the phone would ring. Always two minutes exactly since her front door closed. Originally, when she had picked up the receiver and no one had answered, she thought it was a wrong number, or some sort of kids’ prank. But they happened every day, every time she arrived home. She could hear them breathing down the phone, could almost feel it, hot and damp, on the back of her neck. She began to get frightened.

She told Gwen, of course. She could not just abandon her friend like that, or else she would go out of her mind with worry. Morgana had stopped leaving the house, had become too paranoid to open her curtains. She lived a small, isolated life inside her flat; her only company was Gwen. Dear, sweet Gwen, who would come to see her at least once a day – more when the fear and the phone calls did not stop.

And then, one day, they did.

Morgana was not sure what was better: knowing that the phone would ring, or waiting in desperate, torn silence for it to do so.

Eventually, Gwen told Arthur. By which time, Morgana had taken to the liquor cabinet like she was a fish, drowning on dry land. He had been taping threatening messages to her door, shoving them through her letterbox; she had taped that up now, along with the windows and the vents. The letters themselves, remarked Arthur, when Gwen had brought him round to see just how serious things had got ("She’ll be _fine_ ," he had said when first Gwen had told him. "This is _Morgana_. She’s been stalked by loopy admirers since she was thirteen." But Gwen had turned desperate, pleading eyes on Merlin, and he had said a quiet word in Arthur’s ear), were not threatening in and off themselves. They were more indirectly so; the phrase "I watch you sleeping" was creepy, he supposed. But not harmful. Until he had been shown how Morgana had not opened her curtains for weeks. The lack of sunlight was turning her already pale skin a sickly grey. There were bruises under her eyes like Arthur had not seen since he had first met Merlin.

Also, the comment on how "I could not bear to part with you; something shall have to be done about Guinevere. Do you want to tell her, or do you want me to?" could quite easily have been an innocent remark about an awkward gooseberry situation. But Morgana did not know this man – the easy familiarity he used was sinister in and off itself. As Arthur said, there are two kinds of nutso stalkers. Those who loved you, and those who thought you loved them.

Face grim, Arthur had left the flat, promising Gwen in a low voice that he would _fix it_. She did not ask what he had meant. Behind her, Morgana downed another glass of whiskey.

 

There had been rumours of giant activity in Cumbria; it was not anything for them to be worried about, apparently. Morgana picked at her Caesar salad, twirling a piece of lettuce around her fork before bringing it slowly to her mouth. Arthur was leaning over the coffee table, squinting at a map – he was much too vain to admit that the writing was too small. Gwen was sipping her latest type of herbal tea, watching as Merlin created flickers of flame around his fingers as he drummed them against the arm of his chair. Since Retho’s death, they had been following the movements of the giants very closely; there was one in particular, Morholt, whom Merlin felt they should have some concern over. But so far, nothing of import had come up.

For herself, Morgana was glad. It was nice to not have to worry about what she should keep on her person at all times, in case they had to leave in a hurry. And she had finally been permitted to make use of the wardrobes in her room. Living out of a sports holdall had been very tiresome.

The letterbox sang out, and Morgana got up to collect what little mail they got. It was mostly junk, but there was the occasional useful piece of information that slipped through. Today, there was a letter addressed to her. She chucked the rest of the leaflets describing local pizzeria deals and Jehovah’s Witnesses pamphlets at Arthur’s head, earning her a scowl and a death glare, and flumped back into her seat. Slitting open the envelope with one long finger, she slid out the single sheet of paper and flicked it open.

Then dropped it, screaming.

"I thought you’d got rid of this guy," Gwen said slowly, a moment later, watching with worried eyes as Morgana huddled as far back into the chair as she could, whimpering slightly.

Merlin frowned at the single page held loosely between his fingers, mouth drawn in a tight, thin line. "We did."

"I killed him myself," growled Arthur, hands clenched in his lap as he glared through his hair at Morgana. She gave him a startled, but intensly grateful look, to which Arthur gave a small smile. It was not often that Arthur hunted down people; Merlin was the assassin, after all. "So this," he continued, plucking the paper out of Merlin’s hand, "is not the same guy."

"A copycat?" said Gwen, frown line appearing between her brows. She had taken up residence of the arm of Morgana’s chair, wraping her arms around the other woman. "But, why would anyone want to copy _that_?"

Arthur was looking carefully at the letter. "It seems… identical to the others."

"That’s because it is." Everyone turned to look at Merlin. "It’s a complete replica, style-wise. Except for the magical residue left within the ink."

"Magical… you think someone’s doing this to, like, get at us?" asked Gwen, staring at the paper. Morgana seemed to be settling slightly in her arms.

"If they are," replied Arthur, "then they’re only just starting."

 

Sometimes, Arthur hated being right. Just like before, notes were taped to the door, gifts forced through the letterbox. Between themselves, they decided that Morgana should not leave the house; not only would it allow whoever was doing this to think that they were succeeding, it would protect her in case they decided to go further than their predecessor.

What none of them had foreseen was that it would spread to the rest of them. When Gwen returned to the flat, she saw graffitti spray-painted across the walls; when Arthur and Merlin came out to look, Merlin became suddenly ill. The runes scrawled on the walls stopped Merlin from leaving the flat as well. Soon after that, Arthur was shot. It was a sniper shot, but poorly done, travelling clear through the muscle of Arthur’s left arm. But when he left the house after that, to try and spy where the sniper had been seated, he was treated to a burst of machine gun fire. So, now only Gwen could leave the house without anything happening to her.

Then she disappeared.

Merlin scried for her, and found that she was in a warehouse in the docks area. Somewhere underground, and shielded by a great deal of magic. But neither Arthur, who had been shot clean through the leg a few days ago, nor Merlin could go; someone had been sneaking the runes that caused his sickness into the food. For a whole day, Morgana paced the house, trying to convince herself that she had to go after Gwen. But there was another side of her brain that insisted that she _could not_ , that someone – _he_ – was waiting for her. Arthur and Merlin were of little help; Arthur was angry and bitter about having been shot – twice – and Merlin had been forced to sleep in the bathtub, shower on full blast. The water, he said, helped stave off the magic.

Morgana left that night.

 

The warehouse was not hard to find; she may not be a powerful warlock like Merlin, but she was something of a Seer, and she could see the magic wards around the building even if she had no hope of understanding the spells that made them up. The building seemed to be swamped in multi-coloured fireflies, swarming around the exterior surface like hordes of bees. None of the magic was physically _in_ the briezeblocks and cement that made up the building, like with what Merlin had done to the Winchester hideout. That gave Morgana a small sliver of comfort; clearly, whoever had enchanted this building was not as powerful as Merlin. But then, the sadistic part of her mind reasoned, she had no idea of what Merlin was actually capable of.

She walked through the magical field, felt it buzz and hum against her skin but do nothing to actually harm her. She touched the amulet around her neck, remembering what Merlin had said when he had given it to her before she left.

 _"Just - think of it as a bullet-proof vest. And never take it off."_

She let the silver necklace fall back beneath her velvet tunic, leaning heavily against the door with both hands to push it open. It creaked and squealed on its hinges in a way that made the hair on the nape of Morgana’s neck stand up. She shook off the intense feeling of foreboding at the sight of the vast, dark room that opened up before her, and stepped inside.

Immediately, the door slammed shut behind her. Morgana’s head whipped around, but she was now surrounded in complete darkness. She could feel it pressing against her, pushing at the back of her eyes… quickly, she flicked her hand and whispered an incantation; a small ball of light appeared in her hand, and she tossed it into the air. It hovered above her head, and cast the room in pale, bright light. Unfortunately, due to the pure white of the light, it washed all colour from whatever it touched, turning everything to disconcerting shades of black and grey.

Morgana started forward, steps firm and sure, belying the heavy knot of dread and hesitancy that was twisting in her gut. She travelled down, deep down, far further than she would ever have thought that the warehouse should go. Since when did they have cellars? But Gwen was here, lying hurt somewhere in these labyrinthine corridors. She _had_ to find her.

A shiver passed over her spine, and she looked fearfully over her shoulder. She was not alone.

"Hello, Morgana."

The voice was soft, cold and mocking. It did not belong to a body that Morgana could see, although there was a taste of magic gone wrong on her tongue, bitter and metallic.

"Hello, Garlon," she replied to the air, careful to keep her tone calm and polite.

"Have you come to rescue the little girl?" he asked; Morgana could feel him moving around her. His breath was cold on her skin. "And," she felt him lean sideways to mockingly check behind her, "all alone? No sorcerer or knight-boy to accompany you?" He chuckled, but the humour in his voice sent chills across her skin. She supressed a shiver. "Come along then, little witch-child," Gorlan said, hands on her shoulders as he pushed her forward, steering her from behind. "Let’s go find your friend."

Further down still they went, Garlon steering Morgana down the correct corridors, his chill hands resting always on her shoulders. There was little conversation between them, for Morgana trusted the Invisible Knight as she would trust Galahaut – that is to say, not at all. She was glad, however, that his hands remained only on her shoulders; the last time they had met, it had been in daylight and she had been able to see him enough to fight him off, but the magicked light that surrounded them now rendered him truly invisible, and she doubted that she would be successful this time.

They passed a room with a huge open arch in place of a door, and Morgana was drawn to it from before they had turned the corner; a warm, rich red glow emitted from it that filled the entire corridor. Heat also, soaking into Morgana’s bones with such enthusiasm that she was tempted to lie down on the stone floor and bask in it. But Garlon’s hands held her upright, forced her forward, and when they passed the room Morgana looked inside.

A huge, golden-scaled dragon rested inside, his mighty chest rising and falling in what looked like sleep. But Morgana looked closer, and saw that one massive eyelid was open a slit, and the golden eye watched her as she passed. It was that eye which cast the glow that lit the corridor. She noticed also that the door was too narrow for the dragon to escape, and a sense of great hopelessness and desperate sadness swept through her. A single tear fell down her cheek, and she felt one cold finger wipe it away.

"Gargouille," Garlon murmered in her ear. "We took him from the river Seine at the request of the Pope; he does not sleep, although his breath entices others too. It is mostly his magic that hides this place from the mortal eye."

"Who’s ‘we’?" asked Morgana, voice equally soft, but Garlon merely said, "Come along, witch-child. A long way to go yet." Morgana only noticed that her small light had gone out when they had walked around three more corners, and the light from Gargouille’s eye had faded.

And so they travelled further down, until the corridor widened and straightened. Morgana saw a great, wide archway at the end, heralding the hall behind it. Garlon steered her through it, and she found that it was lit by warm, golden globes similar to her small light, only much larger and grander. The light was not bleaching, either; in fact, it had quite the opposite effect. All the colours were heightened, somehow, made richer by the light. Morgana suddenly felt very small.

Garlon’s hands left her shoulders, and his voice sounded from a long way behind her, back near the doorway. She turned to look at him, and saw a faint, Will o’ the Whisp outline marking him in the archway.

"One Miss _Morgana_ , Lord. Come for the girl."

"Indeed?"

The voice boomed out across the hall, echoing and shaking Morgana from the depths of her soul. It was huge and round and not entirely friendly. She tried not to tremble as she followed where the voice had come from.

Resting in a megalithic stone chair sat a giant. Not a man of giants’ blood, like Retho had been, but an actual giant. He was well over thirty feet tall, the ceiling of the hall within arms reach should he stretch them above his head. His face was large and craggy, like a rock face, and his hair was thick and dark and slightly green, as if moss had sprouted there. He leant forward, leaning on one massive forearm, and peered down at her. Morgana straightened her back and tilted her head up to meet his eyes. They were comparatively small in his head, and bright beetle-black. They watched her with intense curiosity, like a magpie or a crow might watch a woodlouse. Morgana bit down on her tongue to prevent herself from breaking down and fleeing. She was here for _Gwen_. And she was not leaving without her.

"Do you know who I am, girl?" he asked, voice pounding into her like a physical force. Morgana shook her head. "Garlon!" he boomed in the direction of the door, and Morgana heard the voice of the knight slide back to her.

"He is Tarquin, known also as Turkin, guarder of the realm of the Fey."

"Tarquin," Morgana whispered, looking up at the giant. She understood, now, why Garlon was here, and why they had seemed to travel so deep against all the laws of sense. She raised her voice, praying that it did not tremble. "I have come for Guinevere, who was stolen from me."

"Why do you think that she is hear?" asked Tarquin, voice rich with amusement.

"Firstly, because we have scried, and found her here. Secondly, because Garlon brought me here."

Tarquin smiled; his teeth were jagged and black. "Well reasoned, little witch. But look around," he swept his massive arms around the hall. "Can you see her anywhere?"

Morgana did not look, but continued stubbornly to watch Tarquin. "I know you have her," she replied. "Magic does not lie."

"No," said Tarquin, rubbing his chin with one giant hand, as if musing the point. "That it doesn’t. Very well, little child. I will tell you where your – Guinevere - is." Tarquin stood up, and Morgana stumbled back a few paces as he gripped the sides of his chair and dragged it along the wall. "There," he said, pointing at the infinitely smaller archway that was now revealed. "That is where your friend is."

"In there?" asked Morgana. She could sense the strange, alien magic that surrounded that doorway; it ached in her teeth. The inky blackness that waited just behind the arch _oozed_ wrongness, and she took a further involuntary step backwards.

"Yes," said Tarquin. "In there. The realm of the Fey."

 

Nose twitching in vague annoyance, Merlin awoke, eyes slitted against the light above him.

He was lying, mostly submerged, in the bath; as his eyes adjusted slightly, he saw that Arthur was bending over the side, dangling his dripping fingers over Merlin’s face. It had been this inconsistent fall of water onto his face that had woken him. He noticed that Arthur must have turned the shower off at some point – probably to stop him drowning as the water level got too high. He got the impression that someone must have done this everyday since he got sick; he had developed a worrying habit of falling asleep in the tub, with the shower still on and the bath plugged.

Still, that did not qualify Arthur to wake him by dripping water on his face. Or to clambour in so that he was kneeling around him.

"Christ, Merlin! This water’s fucking _freezing_!" Merlin raised an eyebrow. The water warmed around them.

"Happy now?"

"No," said Arthur, petulantly, leaning down to kiss him. "You stole my thunder." Merlin laughed into the kiss, before opening their mouths and forcing his tongue past Arthur’s teeth. Well, maybe forced is not exactly the right word. Maybe: had to move as fast as possible to get his tongue into Arthur’s mouth before Arthur got into his, and win one of the tiny, stupid battles they had over nothing in particular. Arthur groaned into his mouth and sank down on top of him, so their bodies were flush against each other and hello! Underwater tongue action.

As they rose for air, Merlin gasped out, "You’re going to get your bandages wet."

"Too late," said Arthur, grinning with a worryingly predatory eye on Merlin’s neck.

"No-!" Merlin began, meaning to tell Arthur that he _could not_ have hickeys, they were in the middle of a _war_ for Chrissake’s, but then they were underwater again and Arthur’s teeth – Merlin swore that he had fangs – were latching onto his pulsepoint. Merlin’s head thunked against the bottom of the tub and then, suddenly…

"Uh," said Arthur, moving from Merlin’s neck to nibble the sensitive flesh behind his ear, "where’d all the water go?"

Steam filled the bathroom, and Merlin’s headache smashed into him with all the brutal force of a brick wall. Somehow, displaying a worrying possibility of the telepathy that Merlin was supposed to – but didn’t, for some reason – possess, Arthur reached up and pushed the shower on. The water that fell was freezing cold, and Arthur swore, eyes shut as water fell into them, groped blindly for the temperature dial. Soon, the water that hit them was almost scalding, but Merlin had difficulty noticing this as Arthur rolled his hips.

"Too many clothes," he all but snarled into Arthur’s mouth, rewarded with a muffled moan and _Godyesfuck_ Arthur’s hand was in his trousers. Honestly, if this was what happened when he spent all day lying in the bath, then he was really going to have to do it whilst not fully dressed.

"You’re the one who wanted to be decent for the girls," Arthur said, resting his forehead against Merlin’s as he worked Merlin’s cock with one callused fist. Merlin mewled as he discovered that, at this angle, he could not kiss Arthur without moving, and then scowled – well, as much as he could scowl, given what Arthur was doing downstairs – as Arthur gave his one of his wild, reckless grin, all wet hair and teeth and too-blue eyes. Something in Merlin collasped and he grabbed Arthur’s face with both his hands and slammed their lips together, tasting blood in his mouth, on his tongue, and not caring whether it was his or Arthur’s.

"Fuck decent," he said, as soon as he could form vaguely coherent thought. "Morgana’s not here. _Get out of your clothes_."

Arthur grinned down at him, cocky as the first day Merlin saw him. "Make. Me."

Merlin’s face must have looked downright evil, because Arthur seemed to suddenly realise what he had said a moment before he felt his clothes start to tear. After that, he could not be too eager to take them off himself; apparently, he did not want to lose another set of expensive clothes.

"Better," said Merlin, as Arthur crashed back down onto him and they met halfway, skin on skin, and Arthur seemed surprised.

"Where’d your…" Merlin cut him off with a kiss, waving his hand to demonstrate – something, because he was not really sure exactly where his clothes had gone. It did not matter, however, because all that mattered was that this was him, and that was _Arthur_ and Arthur was here and he was not going to leave anytime soon, if his frantic scrabbling for the Emergency Bathroom Lube was anything to go by.

"Morgana knows what that is, you know," he said, as Arthur sat back on his heels – well, one of his heels, the other leg having a bullet-hole in it – to squirt some of the lube onto his fingers.

"Whatever," Arthur ground out, eyes closed as he slicked himself up. "Morgana knows everything." He took a harsh breath through his nose as he accidentally put weight on his wound.

"Arthur," said Merlin, instantly worried. "You’re _injured_."

"And you’re sick," retored Arthur, one slick finger at his entrance. Merlin could not argue with that, but Arthur did not move. "You’re _sick_ ," he said, voice suddenly too soft, too quiet, and Merlin reached out to him.

"Arthur," he said, voice matter-of-fact, because, honestly, if they were going to have sex _then they are going to fucking well have sex_ , "if you don’t fuck me _right now_ I will make certain that you cannot fuck anything else ever again."

Arthur tilted his head slightly. "You can do that?"

"Uh, _yeah_ ," replied Merlin, rolling his eyes. "Remember the guy in Maine? ‘Pity, Beelzebub, about the erectile dys– _fuck_." Which seemed about adequate, really, as Arthur stretched him as fast as possible before thrusting, hard and deep. Merlin suddenly found himself incapable of coherent thought, blindly tangling his fingers in Arthur’s hair so he could pull him down for a kiss, lost in the sensation of Arthur rocking into him and the shower pounding his skin with scalding water and then Arthur’s mouth on his skin, small, slight moans reverberating against his stomach through the open-mouthed kisses he placed there. Arthur bent over him, arms holding him up either side of Merlin’s chest, and Merlin wrapped his legs around Arthur with barely a thought, arching his back to give him better access, to let them move together. Because the world might be going to fuck, their lives may well be heading on an express train to Hell in a handbasket, but _this_ , this they could do. This they were good at.

And then Merlin could not hold on to Arthur anymore, had to brace his hands against the wall of the tub, underneath the taps, and thanked whoever might be listening that they had picked a bath that was wide enough for this, as Arthur pounded into him, threatening to slam him against the bath until he was bloody and _damn_ , Arthur’s hand was on his cock. Merlin’s elbows buckled and he slid towards the wall before they caught him again, muscles straining against the ferocity if Arthur’s thrust, and if that was not his magic making those stars in front of his eyes then he should really let Arthur get shot more often, because being pissy and tetchy made for _serious_ happy fun times.

 

When they woke up, cramped and sore from lying in the bath, squashed together in awkward positions that had them sharing the same breath, it took a moment’s wriggling and some harsh, panted swearing for them to get out, and at least another five minutes of towelling down and kissing before Merlin realised that he could stand without his head feeling like it was going to explode. Slightly perturbed by this sudden change in events, they padded into the bedroom for (dry, in Arthur’s case, and new, in Merlin’s) clothes.

Dressing hastily, they headed for the living room in order to see what had happened.

"What the… Gwen?" Arthur blinked at their friend, who was seated on the sofa as if nothing had happened, except for the odd, hand-caught-in-the-cookie-jar expression that was hardly, if ever, seen on her kind, honest face. "Where – where’s Morgana?" Because he could not see her anywhere, and he was sure that she would not have missed the oppurtunity to walk in on him and Merlin, if purely for material.

Then Merlin was standing next to him, and things started to make sense.

" _Lancelot_?"

 

Arthur lay curled up in the cold, damp cell – God knows where Ector had put them; the Tower of London, if his contacts were anything that Arthur thought they were – and tried desperately to pretend that he had not just broken down. That his face was not soaked from the tears that caused the ugly puffiness and blood-shot quality to his eyes right now (and honestly, he was grateful for the darkness for that reason alone); that the reason he could not breathe, that every intake of breath was gasped and his chest was convulsing, was purely due to the air quality. But every time he did, it felt like his heart was going to explode, that his lungs were twisting and his stomach was insistently rebelling against his every attempt to master himself.

God, he _hated_ Merlin sometimes. But even that thought betrayed him, and he found himself unable to swallow that harsh sob that broke free from his throat. Dragging his manacled hands up to cover his face, Arthur sobbed uncontrollably, breath ripping from his chest with savage force that left him feeling winded whilst his heart twisted until Arthur wished he could just die, just for it to be _over_ , for it to stop hurting. Because it hurt so badly, and he could not make it stop. And Merlin was not even here to make it stop, nor Morgana – and it was all his fault.

The dry, broken sobs filled the dank prison, where there was no one to hear them except the ravens, who did not really mind. It was nothing they had not heard before.

 

People thought they knew Arthur Pendragon, because he was Uther’s son, because he looked like Igraine. They thought they knew him when he was the perfect son in everyone’s eyes except Uther’s, thought they knew him when he rebelled and took up with the assassin who had saved his life when he was meant to be ending it. They even thought they knew him after he killed Uther, after he started and ended many of the gang wars that broke out between the Pendragon favourites after Uther’s death.

But they were all wrong. No one knew Arthur, not really _knew_ him, all his many faceted personalities, his moodswings and temper tantrums and strange demands. Not even Morgana, with whom he had spent most of his childhood. No one could read Arthur well enough to actually know him. At least, not before Merlin.

It had been Merlin who had first asked him the question, that night after the whole world went to hell and Arthur did not really care, because Merlin was here, in his bed, in his arms, and his chest and his brain was buzzing with all these strange emotions that he really did not want to examine right now, thank you very much, because they made him happier that he had ever been before and he was scared as to what that meant. For him, ice-cold golden-boy Arthur Pendragon who had just committed the unthinkable and had not thought twice.

"Why did you kill him, Arthur?"

Arthur merely tightened his arms around Merlin, his Merlin, and said the line that he had been practising to tell the police, those first two times that he had tried and had been expecting to be caught.

"Because he was evil. Because he had to die."

And if Merlin knew that that was not the real reason Arthur had committed patricide, he did not say anything. For which Arthur was eternally grateful.

 

The first time, Arthur did it for Morgana.

 

She had been living with them since her father, one of Uther’s closest and oldest friends, died in one of the many gang skirmishes over territory. She was almost four years older than Arthur, and so by the time he was fourteen and just beginning to consider the possibility that Uther was not right about everything, she was eighteen and well into the stage of sickened rebellion. She had been smoking for years, and Arthur thought that it was mostly to do with getting on Uther’s nerves; but when he sat down next to her on the stoop outside their house, he saw how her finger shook as she fumbled with the lighter, and how her eyes were red from crying and bruised from lack of sleep.

There were other bruises, he knew, because he had seen them, when Morgana had not been careful enough to hide them from him. Somewhere in his mind, he knew that Uther was behind them, with all his concentrated fury and narrowed perspective. He wondered if Uther hit her himself, or if he hid behind the nannies and the cooks the way he did with Arthur. Morgana was not the only one to carry bruises, but Arthur worried about Morgana’s more than he ever did his. She was just so slender, so delicate, so damn _pale_ , that it seemed wrong for her to have a swollen, purple-black mark adorning her arm or her back.

"I hate him," she had said to him when she had finally got the cigarette lit. Her voice was low, for they both knew that it did not do to talk about Uther in any capacity, especially in his own house; the tremble that she barely held in check, that caused her voice to come out harsh and raw, was something new. "I _hate_ him." And Arthur had just sat with her, watching her smoke out of the corner of his eye as they watched the sunset over the city. He wondered what Morgana saw when she looked at it. She would never tell him.

Uther had not let her go to Urien’s funeral – there had barely been one, and it had been carried out outside of Camelot and Uther’s influence. Arthur did not completely understand why Uther had felt the need to kill Morgana’s lover; he had liked Urien, had paired him and Morgana together. It was not as if either he or Morgana had pretensions of taking over ‘the business’. He got the impression that Urien had died for much the same reason that Uther had taken his childhood pet, Darfus, and shot him in the yard when Arthur refused to go to school.

Despite what people saw, Arthur did love Morgana. In later years, he would catch and skin a man who was tormenting her himself; however, he was barely a teenager, and such acts of intense violence were not yet within his moral grasp. Instead, he merely watched as the young, dark-haired woman laced Uther’s food with poison. She saw him in the corner of the kitchen, and he saw the fear in her gaze. He held it steadily, and stood back when she passed him. The look she gave him then was one of astonishment and pride and fierce joy, and he felt his heart warm even as his stomach clenched.

He did not go to that meal, shutting himself in his room until Morgana came in with the news that someone had tried to kill Uther. They sat together for a long time between the sink and the bath, her arms around him. Neither of them spoke; Morgana did not need to, her grip said everything she felt, and Arthur was not sure that his vocabulary contained words to describe the conflicting emotions that twisted in his stomach.

The young woman that carried Uther’s food disappeared, and whilst no one said anything Arthur was shipped out to boarding school the same week.

 

The second time, Arthur did it for Gwen.

There had been a skirmish in the city’s industrial quarter, two rival gangs beating the fuck out of each other over territory. Arthur and Morgana visited the next day, to help with the clear-up. Morgana had a friend in the area, Guinevere Leodegrance. Her father was a steelworker, one of the few lucky enough to keep their jobs; Arthur was sixteen now, and more confident in his ability to read the subtleties of court. He was fairly sure that one of the main reasons that Tom still held his job was because of Gwen’s relationship with Uther’s ward.

When they returned that evening, tired and soot-stained, Uther was seated at the head of the imperious oak dining table. The pallor of his skin and the set of his lips – tight and drawn in, so it looked like he only had a thin gash for a mouth – told them both immediately that he was furious with them, but it was only after he sent Morgana to her room that Arthur realised that Uther was mostly angry with _him_.

"What were you _thinking_?" he exploded, with the complete absense of the tightly reigned in emotion that typified him. "What on earth made you go down there?"

"They needed help," replied Arthur, back straight and eyes fixed on a point two inches over Uther’s left shoulder. "The gangs had gutted the area with fires that destroyed…"

"Shut up." Uther’s voice was cold and brutal; he had got out of his seat and was right up in Arthur’s personal space. "Do you believe all the lies she whispers in your ear?"

Arthur’s eyes snapped to Uther’s. "Morgana’s feelings have nothing to do with…"

"Her little friend – Gwynith – she lives in the industrial quarter, doesn’t she?"

"Guinevere," corrected Arthur, not liking where this was going. "With her father."

"Yes," said Uther, fingers tapping his thigh the way they did when he was formulating a plan of action. "Yes – well, I think an example will have to be made. To both you _and_ Morgana."

Horrified realisation hit Arthur like a ton of bricks, leaving him feeling physically winded. "No!"

Uther turned, one eyebrow raised. "What did you say?" he said, voice soft and dangerous.

"You can’t kill Tom." Arthur was appalled that his father would even _think_ of it. "Morgana’s too _old_ for you to kill the things she loves to teach her a lesson." Uther’s mouth flicked upwards in a parody of a smirk, and he turned away. Arthur grabbed his arm. "You’re just pushing her away!"

Uther’s fist swung up to smack him in the jaw, sending him stumbling backwards. He steadied himself just as Uther hit him dead in the eye, sending him to the floor. Fighting back tears – more at the feeling of lost naiveté concerning that man his father was than the pain – Arthur watched him leave. That night, he disabled the security alarm and barricaded himself, Gwen and Morgana in Morgana’s suite.

In the morning, Arthur left Morgana with Gwen, both asleep on her bed. He went slowly down to breakfast, knowing that the assassination attempt had failed even as he closed the door quietly behind him. When he arrived in the dining room, he stopped short at the sight of the heads of a young, blonde woman and a man that was probably her father floating in individual jars of vinegar. His father looked over the top of his newspaper, and smiled at him. There was something sinister behind that smile, and Arthur did not speak for the duration of the meal.

When he returned to school, Morgana and Gwen went with him.

 

The third time, he did it for Merlin.

 

There are crimes committed by those most honourable that are ignored, are not condemned, because of the very fact that those who did them are considered heroes. The atrocities of war have been overlooked in Camelot for centuries, for the war that currently exists was not the doing of the Pendragons; it has been in progress for years untold, with those who have the aptitude for magic attempting to force the creatures born of it underground, so that they may rule without fear or prejudice. But one has been born out of union between human and creature, the child of an undine, as has been predicted by the remnants of the Druids since the last Reckoning.

It does not take Uther’s specialists as long as he thought to get information about this boy out of a captured undine, who begs for death from her position, nailed to the wall. Iron burns her to her very soul, and long spikes of it have been forced through her arms and stomach; but she is undine, and has no soul, and is as such immortal, except by removal of her head. Uther ignores her pleas, leaving her to hang for days before one of the guards puts her out of her misery. Uther has him shot.

But he cares not for the undine, not even the one that has gained a soul through procreation. He has instated himself in a position of power, and none of the magical beings left above ground are strong enough in this technological age to move against him. Not even the Druids will risk open warfare, not now that he has the name of their supposed saviour. It matters little to him that it is his son that is supposed to march with this warlock against him; Arthur poses no great threat to Uther. He smiles, and the servants that he passes shrink back before the expression, so rarely seen. He rolls the name around his mouth, as if it were a boiled sweet that he wants to get every flavour from.

 _Merlin_.

 

Camelot was not known for its summer heat; if one wanted to get heat stroke and skin cancer then they were much better off flying south; but occasionally it was treated to a scorching wave of heat that rolled down the streets like the heraldic fire-water of the Apocalypse.

For himself, Arthur did not think much of it. He had spent much of the latter part of his childhood much farther north, where the summer sun did not have so strong a hold. He had returned to Camelot, the city of his birth, against the advice of Morgana and Gwen and without the company of Lancelot, even though he had offered. Nothing would have made him come back here except for something that had not even entered his waking thoughts before now: Merlin was missing. Morgana had scried for him, and after much labouring had determined his position. Through he had not heeded her when she begged him not to go, he did first pay a visit to Xanthe, a woman more than half possessed by faerie magic. She gave him the gift of Unseen, although she cautioned him against its prolonged use. The last Man she had given it to was Garlon, who had used it too frequently and for too long at a time, and had at last passed into invisibility all together. Arthur wore the small, unassuming crystal under his shirt, its weight a constant cooling presence against his chest, despite the summer heat.

It assaulted him like a physical force; the very air was tangible, thick and sticky, and if you had enough of a mind to, Arthur would bet that you could grip it and wrap it around you; a viscous blanket. He had seen Merlin do it with fog, and knew that others had done it with darkness, and with silence. He had no such skill; he was only able to see magic when it had a physical effect, either on an object or in the worker – as with Merlin’s eyes.

The sun bleached all the colours of the landscape, fading the grass and the sky so that Arthur was reminded of cheap motel rooms in Nebraska. The weather was like uncomfortable sex: too hot and clinging and sweaty in all the wrong places. Camelot’s underbelly was out in full force in the lower town, as if the sun had raised the whores and the beggars and the cutpurses from the sewers as well as the stench. The whores, bleach blonde with mouths a slash of red lipstick, called to him from the pavements as he passed. The fact that they gave him any attention at all comforted him, as when they had known who he was they would not have dared to approach him.

He supposed that he did not look at all like the Arthur Pendragon of old; certainly, over half a decade had passed since he had left Camelot, and puberty had done much to change his face, but not, he expected, enough that the keen eyes of the hookers would not recognise him. He suspected it was mostly to do with the way he carried himself, and the way he was dressed. Despite the heat, he was wearing jeans and a thin, faded hooded sweater, clothes chosen to conceal the various weapons he had about his person. Not that they would attract much attention here, but Arthur was headed uptown, to the house in which he was raised, where weapons of any sort would be noticed immediately.

On Lancelot’s suggestion, and the girls’ insistence, he had come armed with a .45 automatic that was tucked into the back of his jeans, and he had a long, wicked hunting-knife strapped to his calf. For easy access, he also had a knife in a sheath strapped to his forearm, which the hoodie by its very nature concealed enough for the thieves that hung around in the alleys where the whores frequented not to notice until Arthur had him against the wall with the cool blade to his throat. The kid, barely more than fifteen, stammered desperate apologies interspersed with hail Mary’s, disappearing into the shadows as soon as Arthur relaxed his grip.

He did not stay to watch him leave; he had bigger fish to fry before the night was done.

 

It took him the better part of the evening to reach to grand house on the outskirts of the suburbs, barely within the city at all; whilst clambouring through the tall, thick hedge, the land was wrapped in dusky twilight that had done little to counter the heat of the day.

The soles of his worn sneakers felt every crevice and foothold in the high, brick wall; every dip and curve of the paved area beyond; every rise and fall in the lawns leading up to the back of the house. But Arthur did not need to feel these: all the information was stored inside his memory, the smell of fresh-cut grass and weedkiller dragging memories unbidden from his mind. He pushed them aside, padding silently up to the shadows of the walls. He was not worried about the dogs that patrolled the gardens at night, when they were let loose – he had helped raise every single one since his father decided to breed his own personal guard dog. He did not doubt that Uther had attempted to train them to consider him a threat, but the animals did not love Uther, not as they had loved him. No; it was the guards themselves that Arthur was worried about. He was sure that Uther would have no qualms of his turning up dead at their hands.

How many times had he done this? Escaping from the house seemed to have taken up much of his young life, and he was only marginally surprised to find that the secret side-door (concealed by both ivy and cunning craftmanship) was still hidden and unguarded. It was also locked, but Arthur had taken the keys with him when he had left. He brought them out now, hoping that they would not jangle or catch a stray moonbeam to give him away. The lock was old and rusted and it took Arthur a good moment or two to force the key to turn; but then he was in, and the door slid silently shut behind him.

Now began the most dangerous part of his mission: he had no definite idea of where Merlin would be. Although he knew the house inside out, it was still dauntingly large and in the lower levels corridors wormed labyrinthine tunnels (he refused to think of them as dungeons) well out of the boundaries of the grounds. There were only a few benefits, from Arthur’s point of view, about the tunnels – one: there were plenty of dark corners for him to skulk in, unseen; two: many of the tunnels passed next to the sewer system. That was to be his way out. Instead of risking a breakout of the house with Merlin in tow, Morgana had come up with a more practical solution; they were to make it into the sewer system, where Arthur was to chalk a circle with some funny symbols in it (this was weakest point in the plan, as Arthur was not known for his artistic prowess). Morgana would have repeated it back in their flat, and the two would correspond as a ‘doorway’. Not as sophiscated or as suave as Merlin’s, maybe, but it was perfectly feasible and was the only plan they had.

He stepped back from himself, and tried to think like Uther. It was not as hard as it should have been.

If he was Uther, hiding someone as powerful as Merlin from his protegé, then where would he put him? Well, Arthur certainly would not leave him in the house, for one thing; but knowing that Uther had…

The tunnels under the house spread for miles, but this was mostly made up of the way they snaked around each other, like the grooves in a nautilus shell. It would take Arthur days to search the whole thing, so he was forced to make a decision. Merlin, obviously, was an exceptionally powerful sorcerer – more powerful than any Uther had ever hired and that Arthur had ever met; as such, it was reasonable to expect that he would be kept in the most protected and barricaded part of the labyrinthe. Which was the exact centre.

Naturally, this was hardest part to get to. Woo-fucking-hoo.

Getting through the entrance to the cellars was not as hard as it really should have been – but then Arthur had been sneaking down there since he was a small boy, and knew that the guards were little more than servants with guns. Easily distracted. Once further down into the passageways, Arthur began shrinking into the pathetic shadows, peering around every corner before passing. Twice he was almost caught by passing sorcerers, escaping only by backtracking swiftly and ducking into the nearest room. As he rounded yet another coil, trying hard to avoid the bright lights that shone glistening from every surface, he was almost certain that he saw one with an inverted pentangle branded on his brow.

" _Necromancy_ ," he breathed, and the necromancer had clearly heard him, because Arthur was forced to scramble backwards under a narrow overhang at the base of one of the walls. He shuffled further back still as the necromancer came further to investigate, one hand cupped in spell-casting position. As he cast a light under the overhang, Arthur slipped backwards down some sort of shaft, the light rebounding off the wall where his head had been only a moment ago. Then the light was lost as Arthur slid down, down, down…

 

When he came to, Arthur found himself in some unlit part of the tunnel system. The darkness was complete and overbearing, but Arthur ignored the fleeting sensation of claustrophobia (he was not Morgana, for fuck’s sake), cursing as he tried to find his torch. His knees, backside and hip were rather sore, presumably because he had landed on them, and his right ankle was stabbing him with pins and needles as he shifted his weight from it.

The torch clicked on, and Arthur looked around.

"Fuck," he whispered, gazing up at the cavernous, dripping walls that surrounded him. He had apparently found his way into an unexplored section of the tunnels, or at least one that Uther had not got around to renovating yet: the walls, ceiling and floor were a deep, glittering jet – maybe black granite, Arthur was not sure. The torchlight was caught in tiny sparkling diamonds set deep into the rock, the effect of fairie light only enhanced by the water that trickled down from the ceiling to twist and distort the light. It was, by far, the most wonderous sight Arthur had seen in Camelot. The diamonds explained the lights that covered the rest of the tunnels; clearly, Uther’s sorcerers had come up with some method of getting the diamonds to either glow or reflect a single light a hundred thousand times. He would have to ask Merlin; which reminded him. Merlin: the reason that he was here. Cursing the warlock under his breath, stubbornly ignoring the tiny voice inside him that was whispering that Merlin had done this a thousand time for him, Arthur took his best guess at up and began walking.

 

The route he had taken ended in hole in the wall, at about head height and approximately four feet in diameter. Gripping the torch between his teeth and praying he did not drop it, Arthur gripped the sides of the hole and heaved himself up into it. The torchlight showed that it did, indeed slope upwards, but more than that Arthur could not see. Sighing, he crawled forwards, his already bruised knees complaining at the torment he was putting them through.

Abruptly, the tunnel narrowed, so much so that Arthur was forced to lie flat on his stomach and army crawl (or ‘wriggle like a snake’, as Morgana liked to term it) along the passage. He hoped it did not get any narrower; for someone as thin as Merlin, it would not matter, but he was built quite a lot broader than Merlin was. And besides, Merlin could probably widen the tunnel, or turn himself into a rat or something. Bastard.

Light ahead; Arthur switched off the torch with some difficulty – the switch was a bit stiff for his tongue – and wriggled towards it, hoping that it would not be exactly where he was in the first place. He was in luck: the room was dimmer than the halls were, and there was the distinct whirr of computerised machinery. Beyond that, Arthur could see very little, but there was no sign of human life or any other form of movement, so he bit the bullet and yanked himself out of the tunnel.

His guess about the machinery was correct; the room was full of computers quietly going about their work. Arthur went over to one, and tried to make sense of the readouts. It was clearly measuring something – there was a line that looked suspiciously like a heart rate, but beyond that…

Brain finally clicking into gear, Arthur whirled around, and saw – something, long and pale and thin – pinned to the far wall. There were tubes connected to his arms, with blood running along them into a machine, which seemed to filter it, because what came out of the other end was pure, liquid gold. Like Merlin’s eyes, when he did magic.

Trembling, Arthur stepped closer. A single tear slipped out of his eye as he raised a shaking hand to touch Merlin’s face, noticing how he was too pale, too grey around the eyes and the mouth; the skin beneath his fingers was damn with sweat and burning with fever, and Merlin tried to twitch away. Arthur stepped closer still, and smoothed Merlin’s eyebrow with one thumb. One eye cracked open, bloodshot and unfocussed.

"Arthur?" Merlin’s voice was hoarse and dry, like he had not used it recently and had not drunk for longer still.

"Yeah," replied Arthur, his voice easily as hoarse, as he stroked Merlin’s face. "I’m here." Merlin tried to smile, but it looked as though his face had forgotten how to form the expression. Coming back to himself, Arthur dashed away the tears and savagely, gently, pulled the tubes from Merlin’s arms, letting them dangle on the floor by the filter machine. He carefully undid the straps that held Merlin to the wall, catching him as the warlock slumped against him, unable to support his own weight. His fingers caught loosely on the back of Arthur’s shirt, trying to hold him, and heard the soft, scratching voice whispering his name, over and over, like a mantra, like a prayer.

"Come on," he said, looping his arm around Merlin’s waist, taking almost all of his weight as Merlin clearly was not able to stand. He weighed so much less than Arthur remembered. "Let’s get out of here."

 

Clearly, no one expected anyone to have got so far into the labyrinthe as to wanting to escape out of it, because Arthur managed to carry Merlin all the way to the sewer outlet without meeting any resistance. He was forced to prop Merlin against the wall to open the hatch; and it was then that the alarm went off. Whether triggered by the hatch or by someone discovering that Merlin was missing, it would only be a few minutes before the entire system was crawling with Uther’s guards and sorcerers, and by that time they had to be gone.

Merlin had recovered a little, and was able to help Arthur manoeuvre him through the entrance and stagger along with Arthur’s support. They had to go a fair way into the sewers; they could not risk being too near the house when drawing the circle. As they ran, Arthur tried to remember the exact symbols he needed to sketch in the circle to make it work. If it did not match Morgana’s exactly, then there was no knowing where they would be swept off to.

By the sounds of it, echoing down the iron shafts, the guards had discovered the open hatch, and the clank of boots on metal was the first indication of pursuit. Suddenly, Merlin could go no further, so Arthur set him down and pulled out the chalk. The sounds of the guards were coming louder and faster, and Arthur could see the odd flash of blue light; they had sorcerers with them.

He grabbed Merlin around the waist and heaved him into the circle, bracing his legs against the expected whirling rush of the transport. He twisted as the first guards came around the corner, lead by the strange, young necromancer Arthur had seen before; they were flung into space, ripping across the country. Behind them, the chalk had smudged beyond recognition, and water was already trickling across the marks.

They landed with a thud, Arthur below, on laminate flooring, gasping for breath. Arthur grinned at the ceiling; they were in Morgana’s apartment in St Andrews. They had done it. Merlin whimpered a little, and Arthur loosened his embrace. Concerned, he levered Merlin onto the floor and bent over him.

Merlin eyes were half-closed, and the irises seemed unable to decide between blue and gold, settling for a disquieting mix of the two. Ignoring Merlin’s quiet protests, Arthur picked him up and carried him to the master bedroom. Laying him down, Arthur kissed the wounds caused by the restraints and the needles; kissed Merlin’s scabbed fingers; removed his shirt and kissed the bruises and cuts as he dressed them and then redressed Merlin in clean, loose clothes. He tried very hard not to cry on any of the wounds, knowing how salt water would make them sting, and he lay down next to Merlin; kissed his eyes and pressed his forehead to Merlin’s temple.

"Arthur," murmered Merlin, snuggling closer to him.

"Yeah," Arthur replied, pulling Merlin towards him. "I’m here."

 

They didn't stay long at the St Andrews apartment; despite the erasure of the chalk symbols that permitted the teleport, there was still the chance that one of Uther's necromancers could track them down. Arthur wasn't willing to take that chance. Not with Merlin as weak as he was.

They took the train; people kept giving them odd looks, especially when they were walking in. Merlin was battered and wan and thinner even that he usually was, and Arthur could sense the concern that these people felt towards him. He wasn't sure whether to appreciate it, or be pissed off about it. Merlin, with his usual irritating ability to read Arthur like an open book, rested his head on Arthur's shoulder on the train and told him to stop being such an arse. They still got odd looks, but it was mostly to do with the timid tenderness by which Arthur threaded their fingers.

Morgana snapped fiercely, if quietly, at Arthur when they arrived in London. She didn't seem to approve of his plan of hiding in the capitol; however, her expression twisted and softened into one of such evocative sympathy on the sight of Merlin's smile (still beaming bright despite the pallour of his skin) that all she did on the ride home was shoot her step-brother glares over the top of Merlin's head. Merlin smirked at Arthur from his position cradled against Morgana's chest, and Arthur rolled his eyes. If it weren't for the constant _checkwatchgottomakesurewatchcheckspiesgottokeepMerlinsafe_ rolling around his head, it could almost have been normal.

 

"He needs _a lot_ of _rest_ ," said Gaius, returning from the bedroom with his on-call bag under his arm. He may have retired as a practising physician some years ago, but some habits die hard. His eyes, beneath bushy eyebrows, were just as bright as ever, and Arthur felt their gaze as Gaius gave him a look which said, ‘I know _exactly_ what you were planning to do as soon as I left, my lad, so don’t think you can hide it from _me_.’ Arthur tried very hard not to squirm, and/or look guilty. As far as he could gauge, he did it better than Merlin was ever able to. But then, Gaius indulged Merlin, and Merlin had this strange ability to look remarkably innocent when called for. Mainly by looking like a complete fool.

His gaze strayed to the bedroom door, pulled ajar; Gaius’ eyes twinkled as he smiled slightly. "Go on," he said, tilting his head towards the bedroom. "He was asking for you." He called after Arthur as he went in, "Don’t wear him out! He needs _rest_ , Master Pendragon."

The room was dim, the curtains still drawn, but there was enough light for Arthur to see Merlin in the bed. To be fair, he got the distinct impression that Merlin was slightly luminous, but seeing as Gaius had not mentioned it he assumed this was either just him, or perfectly natural for a warlock of unregistered power. The armchair that Arthur had brought in earlier was still next to the bed, and as he sat down in it, Merlin’s eyes cracked open. The strange colour mix from yesterday was gone, thank God, with the irises having settled on blue, and Arthur was reasonably certain that his skin had a little more colour.

"Arthur?"

He smiled, and Merlin attempted one back. It was not the full wattage of Merlin’s usual smile (for which Arthur was somewhat grateful; he was not sure his eyes could take it), but it was a smile nonetheless, and warmed Arthur’s heart slightly to see it. "Yup. Can’t get rid of me, huh?"

There was something achingly fond in Merlin’s expression as he replied. "Who ever said that I wanted to be?"

"Uh," Arthur made a pretence of thinking. Merlin interrupted.

"Don’t strain yourself, Arthur. Everyone knows there’s not that much inside that pretty blond head of yours." Merlin’s grin lifted up a notch, and the fond look was replaced by one of easy amusement. Arthur scowled.

"As I was saying; I was certain that you were the one who was desperate to be rid of me."

"Yeah," replied Merlin, waving one limp hand airily, "but that was before I discovered how good you were in bed."

Arthur forced down a blush, but he could not stop the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Ducking his head (surrepticiously, of course), he noticed for the first time that he was tracing circles on Merlin’s wrist with his thumb. Meeting Merlin’s gaze again, he saw that the fond expression was back; something twisted in his chest, and he stood to leave.

"Go to sleep," he said, one hand heavy on Merlin’s chest, before closing the door quietly behind him.

Gaius was still there, having helped himself to tea from the cupboard. Arthur chose not to mention it.

"How long before he’s up and about?" He accepted the steaming mug from the physician and sat down opposite him.

"Hmm," said Gaius into his tea. "That’s hard to gauge. He’s healing far faster than any normal person would – because Merlin’s _not normal_ , Arthur," he said as Arthur made to leap to Merlin’s defence, "he’s the single most powerful warlock the world’s seen for probably several millenia, and it’s his magic that’s healing him. From your description of the filtration machine, I would say that they were trying to separate his magic from his blood, which would account for Morgana’s inability to find him easily. For what, however, is anyone’s guess."

Arthur frowned into his mug, not seeing the swirling tea. Gaius, taking note of his expression, stood up to leave. Arthur glanced up at him as Gaius passed, pausing to rest a hand on Arthur’s shoulder.

"I know – I know this is probably the worst thing he has ever done," Arthur did not have to ask who ‘he’ was, "but don’t do anything rash, my boy. Think of Morgana. And Gwen. Who would look out for them, if you were gone?"

"Morgana can look after herself," Arthur replied automatically. He did not look up to see Gaius’ expression. "Thank you," he added, sincerity loading every syllable, as Gaius reached the door. The physician glanced around. "For – for everthing. I know how hard it must be for you. Because of... Well. I appreciate it."

Gaius gave him one of his patented unfathomable looks. "Merlin is like a son to me, Arthur," he replied, quietly, and Arthur got the impression he was being tested. Or something. "I would gladly die for him."

Arthur didn't know quite how to respond to that. His mind supplied, me too, and he figured that it showed on his face, because Gaius gave him a half smile as he closed the door behind him.

 

"You can't seriously be thinking of doing this." Morgana stared at Arthur across the table, where the blond man was studying his hands, spread out over his knees. The pose worried Morgana more than anything else, because she knew Arthur only ever sat like that when he was trying to stop his hands shaking. Which meant that this was very important. And very serious.

"Why not?" Arthur replied, voice quiet and calm, which worried Morgana more than if he had shouted at her. "I don't remember you complaining when I refused to stop others."

Morgana let out a shaking breath, determined not to allow Arthur's brick-headedness to rile her. Her fingers itched – whether for a drink or to reach across the table to grasp one of Arthur's hands, she wasn't certain – and she found herself unconsciously mirroring Arthur's pose. "That was different," she said, voice soothing and desperate. "It wasn't _you_..."

Arthur's head snapped up, and his eyes were like chips of ice in his face. Morgana had never seen him like this. "This time is _different_ ," he hissed, glaring at her. "This time - " He broke off, focus shifting momentarily to something behind her. Morgana turned her head to see Merlin stepping warily out of the bedroom, eyes like deep, black bruises in his skeletal face, and hands nervous and clenching in the nightshirt.

" _Merlin_ ," she gasped, and stood to go over to him. Merlin flinched, and took half a step back, and Morgana halted, confused and hurt. She felt Arthur brush past her, saw him cross to Merlin and take his hands – long and thin and frail, like someone five times his age – and whisper something to the other man, who stared at Morgana over Arthur's shoulder with eyes wide and terrified. Morgana felt something twist in her stomach, and refused to cry.

Whatever Arthur said to Merlin, it seemed to have calmed him, for the dark man stepped around him and took two hesitant steps towards her. "Mor-gana," he said, falteringly, and Morgana beamed through unshed tears and closed the distance between them. She gently took one of his hands in hers, praying that she wouldn't scare him off – his mind, so obviously shattered by whatever Uther had been doing, clearly didn't recognise her, at least not as a friend – and hoping to give him some comfort.

So the shock, when it came, was completely unexpected. Morgana reeled as memories that did not belong to her, and yet were hers, slammed into her; she dropped Merlin's hand, and saw him slide his gaze from hers. Arthur, not looking at her either, lead Merlin back into the bedroom. Shaken, Morgana returned to her seat, absent-mindedly rubbing her hand where Merlin had touched it. It ached, like an old wound.

Arthur returned, and they sat in silence for a while, sipping at their tea. Finally, Arthur spoke.

"He – he wasn't like this. Not earlier. But Gaius – he thinks that whatever Uther was doing" Morgana noted that Arthur gave Uther his name, rather than his familial title, "may have – broken something." Arthur's forehead furrowed, and Morgana's heart clenched at the hopelessness in his voice. "I – I don't –" Morgana interrupted.

"What do you need me to do?"

And even though it felt like she was going to be sick, like her heart was blocking her throat at the thought of what they were about to do, the sight of Arthur's smile was enough to make it worth while.

 

Camelot was a large city, and the Pendragon household was, predictably, right in the centre. Arthur had never thought of it before, but after what he had witnessed in the bowels of the mansion, he wondered precisely what Uther's motives had been for building it _just there_. After all, the area around Camelot was not famed for its rich mineral deposits, but Arthur had seen the tunnels beneath the mansion. This knowledge, teamed with the sight of the veritable army of necromancers that Uther had employed, gave Arthur a sickening feeling in his stomach. For Uther _always had reasons_.

It had been suspiciously easy getting into the city. This worried Arthur; when he had come alone, it hadn't been so much of a deal that no one stopped him or even gave him a second glance; but he was now entering the city of his birth with Morgana and Lancelot, for fuck's sake. Surely, _surely_ , someone would notice them?

But no. No cries, so stares, no double-takes. No one even bothered to look at them. So. Arthur was now officially worried. Not that it would do to tell Morgana that; she looked about ready to faint as it was, and he figured that it was only the presence of himself and Lancelot – as well as the look on Gwen's face when Merlin hadn't recognised her – that was keeping her from fleeing. And thank God for Lancelot. The man's steady, dependable bearing was something that Arthur could fall back on, was relying upon even now to hold his own nerve. Lancelot had met Uther only once, and from that small encounter had professed a wish never to have to repeat it. But Arthur had asked, and Lancelot was here. He was a fine man, and a damn good friend. Arthur hoped for the chance to tell him that, once this was all over.

They reached the boundaries of the Poor Quarter, after which they were bound to be noticed, if only for being out past the curfew. Arthur frowned at the lightening city, before assisting Morgana up the side of the building they were going to camp out on. Lancelot had already scaled the first two floors, and took over in aiding Morgana to the top (Morgana was a highly skilled rock climber, but climbing buildings was something that boys did in their free time. Morgana would go to the Peak District to hone her skills). Arthur swiftly followed, swinging himself over the lip of the roof and falling down behind the wall that ran around the edge just as the sunlight swept into the Poor Quarter. They waited, silently, trying to regulate their breathing and listen for any sounds of discovery, until the town below them hummed into life. Nothing. They had not been noticed. Arthur glanced over at Lancelot and Morgana, the latter of which was paler than usual, but gave him a smile. Just to show she was just as capable as him. He grinned back, grateful for the sibling rivalry that afforded Morgana a form of reckless bravery to match his.

Accepting an apple from Lancelot, Arthur settled back against the wall and watched the sun track its slow course across the sky.

 

Merlin had waited until he was sure they had gone. It hadn't been hard to put Gwen to sleep – she was exhausted anyway, from the worry over his health and the excitement at his return and the horror of his condition. Just a breath, a mere exhalation, and she had slumped in the armchair at the side of his bed, completely out for the count. He ignored the slight twinge of guilt in his gut, and slipped out of the house.

His hood fell far enough over his forehead to disguise his face, but he had forgotted to put on any shoes. The chill of the damp pavement seeped into his bones, and Merlin found himself forced to stop more than once to force the bloodflow to return to his feet. He was tired, so tired, but he had to go. For Arthur's sake. He remembered that much.

It took him longer than he remembered to get to the passage that would lead him down. He wasn't sure whether that was because he had remembered it wrong, or because his feet were numb and blue and bleeding, and he was limping. It didn't matter. He followed it down.

There were so many stairs. Merlin was grateful that he was going down them, rather than in the opposite direction, but he still had to pause at many intervals to lean against the wall and prevent himself from merely tumbling head over heels down them. He chose not to think how he was going to get back out.

Eventually, he reached the bottom. His mind shied from the comparisons between this place and _that place_ ; the track marks at his elbows throbbed at the memory, and he almost turned back, almost fled from that place, exhausted or not, but for the pressing urgency of something... He couldn't quite reach it; the thought skittered and danced around his mind like a damn moth; fluttering into view for a moment before disappearing again.

" _Merlin_."

The voice was deep, and ancient, and Merlin felt it more through the stone floor beneath his bare feet and vibrating in his bones than he did with his ears. He followed the voice – it seemed to know what it was talking about.

It was very dark this deep. Merlin considered striking a light, but something advised him against it. Besides, he could see a glimmer of warm, golden light just around the corner, in the same direction that the voice was leading him. Calmly, blindly, Merlin followed it.

" _Merlin_."

He stood in the well-lit, cavernous room, facing the solidly-built black man reclining before him. He didn't fail to notice the fetter locked to his right foot. Merlin smiled.

"Hello, Hen Ddyn."

The Dragon looked back at him, and the returning smile was all sharp, pointed teeth, and no affection or humour.

" _What brings you back, Merlin? I thought you were 'through with me'_."

Merlin swayed slightly on his feet, a rush of pleasant dizziness accompanying the wave of tiredness washing over him.

"It has been a long time, Hen Ddyn. We are allowed to change our minds."

" _Indeed_ ," mused the Dragon, regarding the young warlock through half-closed eyes. " _And yet you do not come to me to make amends for your behaviour_." Merlin returned the Dragon's gaze steadily and blithey, and he detected a flicker of amusement and anger in the other's eyes. " _So. Why are you here, Merlin_?"

"It's Arthur."

" _Ah, yes. Of course_." The Dragon stretched lazily, the fetter clacking. Merlin caught sight of scales on the skin bordering it. " _The young princeling. What seems to be the problem this time_?"

"He has gone to kill Uther, on my behalf. I did not wish him to go."

The Dragon clicked his tongue. " _No, indeed. The death of the king was your task, Merlin_."

"Yes." Merlin blinked and forced himself to focus. He would not sleep, not here. Here was a dangerous place to drop his guard. The Dragon was watching him with something akin to hunger, and it turned Merlin's stomach. "That is why I am here."

" _You do not believe the boy up to the task_."

"He will kill Uther." The absolution in Merlin's voice seemed to amuse the Dragon somewhat. "Of that there is no doubt. However, some may try to raise him."

The Dragon smiled nastily again, flashing his teeth. No matter how good the disguise was, he always ended up with pointed teeth. Merlin wondered whether that was a benevolence on the part of the Creator, or whether the Dragon was merely too vain or too weak to remove that essential part of his personality. " _And where, little warlock, would they get that power? Uther's necromancers are not that powerful, even were they to work in tangent. Which they will not_."

"No," agreed Merlin. "They will use me."

The Dragon looked very carefully at Merlin, before standing to move closer to the warlock, to breath foul-tasting magic in his face. " _I am not going to kill you, little warlock. Not even the fate of your precious princeling can make me do that. However_ ," he added, as Merlin dug deep to summon enough magic to enfuriate him, to make the Dragon kill him, " _I will keep Uther's body. None shall raise him whilst it is under my charge_."

Merlin studied the man in front of him, seeing the swirls of ancient magic that made up the conceit of his current form. "Deal," he said eventually, and turned to leave.

" _Merlin_ ," the Dragon called after him. " _What guarantee do I have of your promise_?"

Merlin turned his head, slightly, so that he could see the Dragon returned to his chair. He glanced down at the floor, where bloody footprints marked his presence. "You have my blood," he replied, smile tugging the corners of his mouth. Feeling better than he had on the way down, Merlin began the long climb back to the surface, the hissing laugh of the Dragon echoing in his head.

 

It was high noon. The perfect time to begin a murder.

Arthur hoisted himself upright and began the climb back down the shadowed side of the building, moving as soft and quiet as a cat. Morgana landed neatly beside him, and Lancelot a moment later. Together, they stalked through the streets of Camelot, heading towards the mansion at the centre.

Well. Maybe stalked was not the best way to put it. Due to the necessity of blending in, the threesome had changed on the roof into clothes more suited to the upper town of Camelot. Arthur pulled the sleeves of his shirt straight under his blazer as Lancelot shrugged into his overcoat. Morgana was in heels. Arthur had no clue how she was planning on running. Maybe she wasn't.

It wasn't difficult to recall the old air of superiority as they walked up the hill towards the city centre. The midday crowds parted unconsciously before them, Arthur in the lead, and the familiarity of it all was easy to slip back into. A small voice at the back of his head told him that it would probably be a good idea not to stand out so much, but that was quelled by the tenuous knowledge that he looked rather different now that he had when he was last seen walking these streets. No one was going to recognise him.

Unlike three days ago, the walls surrounding the mansion were heavily – if surrepticiously – guarded. Arthur and Morgana knew how it worked, and they both knew that getting in through the secret gate was not going to be feasible this time around. However, Morgana 'had it under control'. Whatever that meant.

"Here." She gripped Arthur's hand vice-like, and he winced at her. She merely smirked in return and took Lancelot’s hand in a similar fashion. Checking swiftly for guards, Morgana glanced up at the two men on either side of her. "Do you trust me?" Lancelot immediately confirmed this, as Arthur shrugged one shoulder with a non-committal, "well..." Morgana ignored him, and dragged them forward at a run. Arthur followed mainly because Morgana was fucking strong, despite his attempts not to hit the wall they were heading for. They collided with it, and Arthur twisted to the side to protect his head...

And then they were through. Somewhere. Arthur blinked and rubbed his hand absentmindedly when Morgana released him. They were, by some strange force of nature, inside the mansion. Morgana was breathing heavily, and pulling a smoking ring off her finger. Arthur hadn't even noticed she was wearing one.

"What?" she said, when she caught his look. "You're the only one who's allowed to have friends who can do magic?" Arthur rolled his eyes, touched Lancelot’s shoulder and they separated, the men going one way, Morgana the other. He wished her luck, silently, but didn't look back. If everything went to plan, their paths should not cross until after this was all over. _If I get that far_ , murmured that small voice at the back of Arthur's mind. He pushed it down, and lead Lancelot on through the building that was once his home.

Gaius was sitting at his desk, writing up his reports of the latest findings of the necromancers (he disapproved of what Uther was doing beneath the mansion, but it wasn't his place to question), when the knock came at his door. He permitted the entrance without really thinking about it, glancing up to see the guard standing there.

"Well?" he asked, slightly irritated when the guard did not explain himself. "What do you want? I haven't got all day, you know."

So he was quite surprised when the guard fell flat on his face, a silver hair ornament buried in the back of his neck.

Morgana stepped over the body, retrieving her hair clip and holding her other hand out to the physician. "Gaius," she said, and the old man just stared at her. "We need to leave."

"What – my child," he spluttered, staring from her to the dead guard. "What is happening here? What are you doing here? If Uther catches you..."

"We won't need to worry about Uther," replied Morgana, absently, and something clicked in Gaius' mind.

"What is Merlin doing, Morgana?" he asked, carefully. Morgana looked at him, very earnestly, as if she needed him to understand something she couldn't say.

"It's not Merlin, Gaius. We really need to leave." There was an edge to Morgana's voice, fear or apprehension, and Gaius wondered exactly how she'd bought the time to come get him.

"Yes," he said, turning back to his desk and gathering his papers. "Yes, of course. I just have to..."

"No." Morgana grabbed his arm as he made to fill his bag. "No, Gaius. We have to leave _now_."

He looked at the young woman in front of him, saw the tension around her eyes and mouth, saw the desperation and wondered when she became someone who would kill. And then there was no time for thinking as Morgana dragged him through corridors and out of the mansion by some secret way that he had never seen before. And then they were out. Confronted by an army of security.

He heard Morgana swear from beside him, and fumble for her gun and shoot the first man to approach clean through the forehead. Gaius got the vague impression of more gunshots and bodies falling, and then they were surrounded and he was being ripped from Morgana's side. She was screaming, anger and fear mingling, and he wondered absently how many bullets she had left. Not enough.

He found himself on the floor, his head kicked and something wet on his face. It was his blood. There was a high-pitched ringing sound in his ears, and his vision was blackening at the corners. Morgana was screaming his name, and then just screaming, and then there was pure, brilliant golden light filling his vision. Morgana had stopped screaming.

 

Arthur crept deeper into the mansion, taking the lesser used passages and grateful for the ever stable presence of Lancelot at his back. They had come across a few sentries, which had been dealt with swiftly and silently, but Arthur was still unnerved by the lack of patrols. There should have been more – were more when he was a boy here, and Merlin having been rescued only the other day… Something wasn't right.

What became evident when they passed a window down into the grounds at the back of the house. There was a vertiable army of guards swarming down there, and Arthur could hear Morgana screaming, wild and high. _Shit_. And then, an explosion of golden light and there was Merlin. His magic was a tangible physical force, swirling out from him and ripping through the guards like water through a crevice. They didn't stand a chance.

Of course, all the commotion was bound to attract attention from the rest of the house, so Arthur dragged himself away from the window and continued on his way.

It was still worrying how few patrols there were in the mansion, even with Merlin slaughtering the vast majority of the force outside. Arthur believed that they would most likely be surrounding Uther at this point; his father may be a complete bastard, but he was not stupid. Arthur had been trained by him, knew how he thought. Uther would know that something was coming. What Arthur was hoping was that Uther would think that it was Merlin. Then at least he would have some form of surprise over his father.

He did not tell Lancelot any of this; not because he didn't trust him, but because he knew that Lancelot would attempt to stop him going through with this, and he needed to do it. He just had to. And Lancelot was too good a friend to get embroiled in this mess any more than he had to.

They entered the inner hallway.

The room was massive, a giant statement to the Pendragons' wealth and prestige, with gilt door frames and bannisters, plush red carpet lining the marble floor and immense ornate wall hangings. The thick oak door frame next to Arthur's face exploded into a million shards as the first sniper's bullet smacked into it, barely an inch from its target. Arthur flinched back, swearing and blinking through the blood; there was no need for secrecy now. They had been spotted. Behind him, he heard the whistling crack of a rifle and a body fell from the upper balcony. Arthur glanced back over his shoulder briefly to see Lancelot steadying and reaiming the long barrel of the gun. They shared a look, a nod. Then Arthur leapt out from cover, the sawn-off blowing the man closest to him back a full foot as he sprinted around the lower balcony.

Arthur slid into place behind a large, oak chest and pulled out the automatic, grateful for the hours he spent playing war games in these very halls as a child. He never thought he would part of the real thing all these years later.

As he slammed the magazine into place and positioned himself, Lancelot sprung into action, leaping out of the doorway and knocking one man over the ballistrade with the butt of the rifle. Arthur took out his pistol and took down two that were coming at Lancelot from behind as the darker man swung himself up onto the upper balcony. Once he was up, Arthur leapt from cover onto the staircase, automatic sweeping a hail a bullets in front of him and cutting down three more men. But these were not the basically trained men that formed the majority of the house security. These were Uther's personal bodyguard, trained men from the darkest and most dangerous walks of life. These were the men who had trained Arthur in self-defence. And they were good. They were better than him, and faced with the (exquisitely choreographed, full of carefully positioned pieces of furniture and designed with defence in mind) room at the bottom of the stairs, behind which his father was no doubt waiting, Arthur knew that he was not going to make it.

That is, until the wall above him disintegrated and Merlin stepped through.

Arthur had no idea what the other man was running on; he was still as pale and frail as before, but his eyes and skin and breath was glowing gold and the necromancers, leaping out from hiding as soon as they realised who had joined the fray, did not stand a chance against his cold magic.

Lancelot was at his side again, and the two men left the magic to Merlin and the necromancers. They dealt out death in blood and bullets, the training of the bodyguards no match for the anger and desperate determination of their opponents. Those remaining fled down the passageways towards Uther's chambers, and Arthur turned towards Merlin.

Now that he had time to study the other man, he noticed that Merlin did not really seem to be present. He was glowing, completely gold, but his personage was slightly translucent. The avatar stepped forward and place one hand on Arthur's shoulder. He felt the pleasant buzz of magic in his muscles and teeth.

 _I am with you, Arthur_ , said Merlin's voice, bypassing his ears. _I know_ , he replied, and the avatar smiled, before turning to Lancelot. He had taken a bullet to the chest, and whilst it was not very serious, the avatar and Arthur shared a glance, a thought, before the avatar touched Lancelot’s forehead with one glistening, golden finger and he was gone. The avatar turned to Arthur once more, and smiled, before disappearing himself.

And Arthur was alone in the ruined hallway, facing the open passageway to his father. He took one deep, fortifying breath, and stole into the darkness, like a thief in the night.

 

The paths to Uther's chambers would fill Arthur with dread when he trod them as a child, and something of the old terror seeped back with this new journey. Arthur crushed it down, scowled into the darkness and wished that he could see, instead of having to traverse the maze from memory.

As suddenly as the thought had bloomed in his mind, Arthur found himself looking at his surroundings as if through a yellow gel; he spun around, checked all the surrounding surfaces, looked for lighting that could have suddenly sprung on. Before a slow smile spread across his face, and he mouthed Merlin's name without really meaning to. _Of course_. Heartrate steadied at the knowledge – slightly peturbing though it might be – that Merlin was in his head, Arthur continued on his way.

It wasn't much further until he reached Uther's quarters. With Merlin's magic humming in his veins, the journey shortened considerably to what Arthur remembered, with a small logical voice telling him that he had grown considerably since that last visit. He met little resistance, which was unusual. Arthur disposed of the opposition with ease and efficiency ( _Uther would be proud_ ), and left their wasted carcasses at the side of the corridor. He pushed open the doors.

Uther was sitting with his back to them, poring over something in his lap. The arrogance of the man threatened to disgust Arthur were it not for the sudden pound of his heart and the throb of _becarefulbecareful_ against his thoughts.

"I wondered when you would come." Uther spoke without looking up, without turning around, and Arthur took several careful steps away from the open door. He had no wish to be ambushed from behind. "I did think you'd at least take a few days to recouperate, after our last session." Arthur's blood froze in his veins as he realised Uther was talking about Merlin. The Merlin in his head shied away from the thoughts ricocheting around Arthur's head concerning Uther's statement. "But clearly you just can't stay away. You really are pathetic, sorcerer. I thought you might have had a shred of loyalty to my son, but apparently -"

Arthur shot him, and Uther doubled up on the couch as blood sprayed from his shoulder. Then he turned around, and saw Arthur standing there, pale and livid and trembling slightly, gun aimed at his head. He saw Arthur's finger tighten, whiten, on the trigger, and he threw himself forward, the bullet missing his head by inches.

"I can't believe you'd choose a sorcerer over your own father, Arthur," he said, groping under the couch for the gun box he always kept hidden there.

"You are not my father," replied Arthur, cold and curt, and he took two steps forward and leapt over the couch. Uther was ready for him, knocked him sideways and into the solid oak coffee table. Arthur's head cracked into the corner, and sparks exploded in front of his eyes. He heard a gun cock, and his hand flew up before him, words spitting from his mouth foreign and aching against his jaw. The bullet clattered harmlessly next to him, and Arthur heaved himself upright, blinking away dizziness. Uther was staring at him, and there was hatred in his eyes. Arthur caught sight of himself in the mirror behind the older man, and saw that there was gold in his.

"So." Uther's voice was cold and flat, and Arthur felt a thrill of terror rip up his spine at the tone. "That is how it is."

"Yes," replied Arthur, gun loose by his side. "That is how it is."

Uther's nostrils flared, and he brought the gun up to Arthur's chest. Arthur shot him in the leg, through the artery ( _posterior tibial_ , his mind supplied absently) and caused a spurt of blood to slash across Arthur's shirt. Uther collapsed to the floor, and Arthur moved to stand over him. Uther tried to stab him in the leg, but Merlin's magic sang and the blade snapped off at the hilt. Arthur looked coldly down at the man he had once admired and imitated more than any other, and emptied the magazine into his chest, ignoring the blood that flecked his face and clothes.

 

He wasn't altogether sure how he made it back to the London apartment, but suddenly he was there and Merlin was standing before him, shaking.

"You – you are covered in blood," he said, fingers fumbling at the buttons of Arthur's shirt.

"It's not mine," Arthur said, numbly, and Merlin opened his mouth as if to speak, before merely nodding. Arthur put his hand to Merlin's face, thumb brushing the cheekbone. Merlin pushed his face into Arthur's hand, kissed the bullet-graze at the base of his palm, and Arthur felt something hot and wet roll between his fingers. Merlin stepped closer, trembling hands working at Arthur's shirt as his breath came quick and short. Arthur tried to speak, but Merlin kissed the bruises and grazes that emerged and he found himself quite unable to.

But then Merlin was on his knees and Arthur really did not want it to happen like this. Not tonight. He dropped to his knees so that he and Merlin were face to face, and he saw that Merlin's face was damp with tears and he was biting his lip to stop that trembling like his hands, like the rest of him. Arthur took his face in both hands and kissed him, chaste and gentle and desperate, before wrapping the slighter man in his arms and pulling him flush against his chest. " _Merlin_ ," he breathed, pressing his face into dark hair and feeling hot wetness slide down his own cheek. Merlin's breath hitched, and his long fingers reached around to tangle in Arthur's hair and drag his head back, giving Merlin room enough to lock their lips together and slip his tongue in alongside Arthur's. Arthur kissed him back, because how could he not? Especially when Merlin was making tiny little whimpers of need and desperation, which was the most erotic thing that Arthur had ever heard.

Arthur slid his fingers under Merlin's shirt, ghosting over the delicate flesh and feeling bones too close to the surface. Merlin shifted, and the shirt came off ridiculously fast and then Arthur was pushing Merlin backwards onto the carpet, all the time with _gentlegentlegentle_ careful movements, teasing kisses that were really all open mouths and hot breaths than anything substantial. Until Merlin gave a high-pitched whine-growl and wriggled up against Arthur, forcing their mouths together with his hands on either side of Arthur's face, and it was all Arthur could do to not collapse bodily on top of the slighter man. Instead, he rested himself on his forearms on either side of Merlin's chest and made do with ravishing Merlin's mouth as thoroughly as possible; anything to make his make those needy noises again.

Merlin moaned into the kiss, all hot and wet and _wanton_ , and Arthur felt the hairs on his arms stand upright as a thrill of magic ran through the room. He opened his eyes slightly and saw that all the furniture in the room was floating, that they were floating, and that everything had a strange golden tinge to it.

"Merlin," he said, voice as snarky and derogatory as he could manage when Merlin's fingers slipping inside his trousers. "You realise that we are floating."

"Mmhmm," said the other man, eyes half-open and blown wide but the gold of the irises still visible around the edges, fingers deftly undoing Arthur's belt and then his trousers were on the floor. And Merlin's clothes were Godknowswhere, and Arthur found himself quite unable to sound waspish when Merlin rolled his hips like that.

" _Fu-uck_ ," Arthur said, breath an exhalation between clenched teeth and eyes screwed shut when Merlin just went boneless against him and gasped, "yes, please," and honestly, that was it. He was so far gone it was ridiculous, but at this point he really didn't care and from the noises Merlin was making as he slid his fingers inside him Arthur was pretty sure Merlin was in no state to comment.

And then he was inside and it was desperate and forceful and tender and effortless and _right_ and neither of them lasted long. And when they hit the floor with a thud and Arthur freaked momentarily about hurting Merlin before the other man merely shifted position against him, Arthur found himself kissing the bruises of the trackmarks that lined Merlin's arms and inhaling the scent of his skin. He swallowed hard against the swirling cacophony of emotions in his chest and wrapped his arms around Merlin, choosing not to question where the blanket had come from as he tucked it around the smaller man.

"Why did you do it, Arthur?" Merlin murmured into the skin of his neck. "Why did you kill him?"

Arthur closed his eyes and pressed his lips to Merlin's temple, listening to his mind screaming _because he hurt you, because he took you away from me, because you're **mine**_ , and said the line that everyone expected him to say. But that was okay, because he figured that Merlin knew what he really wanted to say. He just wasn't ready to say it yet.

 

The world was soft and hazy and warm, sleep-filled delirium. Arthur smiled, slightly, just a curve in one corner of his mouth, just a sensation of happiness making its presence known. He did not open his eyes; not yet, not wanting to break the spell of dream-edged reality, not when he could lie here in this warmth that was not all from the bed sheet and be _happy_.

Merlin was pottering around in the kitchen, Arthur could hear him, could always hear him; Merlin had the effortless ability to be completely silent and make noise at the same time. The trails of Delibes' _The Flower Duet_ floated into the room, and Arthur's smile broadened sleepily, slightly, until he felt air on his teeth. Merlin. Such a _girl_. Especially when he wandered around the kitchen, carefully, quietly clattering pots and pans and dishes and forgetting that the kettle whistles when its boiled, especially when he _hummed along_. Arthur knew all the words, could speak French fluently thanks to boarding school and his multitude of foreign nannies. He chose, as he always did, to ignore the way that his mind sings along in his head. A tinkle of breaking china, and Arthur's smile flickered to smug for one moment; if Merlin did not break something before he had opened his eyes, then his day was not complete.

His chest swelled and expanded with a silent, sleepy, contented sigh. He wondered when, exactly, he became so attached to _routine_.

He hears Merlin enter the room, and suppressed a stupidly fond grin at the sounds of Merlin attempting so very hard to be quiet. The scent of burning flesh met Arthur's nostrils, and his nose wrinkled involuntarily.

"Jesus, Merlin; did you kill the pig yourself, or did someone try to break in again?"

He was joking, of course. Merlin had probably just burnt it in a _really strange way_. He opened his eyes and looked sideways at his meal, and frowned. It was perfect. In fact, it was probably the best meal Merlin had ever cooked. So, what was that disgusting smell, and where was it coming from? Maybe someone _had_ broken in, after all. There had been that incident last Easter, when a nut job had managed to gain access to the flat somehow, and Merlin had lost his temper. It was not even like the guy was all that much of a threat; but Arthur got the impression that Merlin was more upset with himself for allowing the guy to come so close to Arthur. So he fried him. Literally. The rest of the day he had spent throwing up. But Arthur had not heard any screams (and that sound was not one he was going to forget), and besides, it was more of a _rotting_ smell than anything.

Merlin had his back to him, folding clothes and putting them away. Arthur pushed himself up into a sitting position, appetite lost to the churning in his gut.

"Merlin," he said, slowly, "what's that smell?"

"Smell, Arthur?" Merlin did not turn, continuing to neatly fold and pile Arthur's socks into the chest of drawers. "You mean the fantabulously amazing scent of the breakfast I prepared for you?"

Arthur snorted, his concern giving way to the compulsive need to mock. " _Mer_ lin," he says, quite pleased at how condescending he could sound whilst only half-awake, "have you managed break Morgana's china _again_?" Merlin laughed, and, even though he was facing the opposite wall, Arthur could see the goofy grin he did. The infectious one, that caused Arthur to berate and bark because it melted his soul a little, and Merlin knew it.

"Hey! I fixed it, okay? You'd never know it was broken."

A sudden suspicion bloomed in Arthur's mind, and he squinted at the plate holding his breakfast, trying to spot a hairline crack. Merlin cast an amused look over his shoulder at the blond man, skin almost translucent in the muted light coming through the drapes. The sight sent a stab of concern through Arthur's gut, although he should be used to Merlin's insanely pale skin by now; quickly followed by nausea as a rolling stench of rotting meat assaulted him once again. "Seriously, Merlin, did you leave out some meat, or something? Because that's _really_ bad..."

Merlin turned, face a picture of concern at Arthur's behaviour. "Arthur, I really can't smell _anything_ , at least nothing off – Arthur? Are you okay?"

Arthur was shrinking back against the far side of the headboard, horror reaching across all his features. He was having difficulty breathing, feeling like it was caught somewhere back in his throat, choking him as his head swam and his stomach twisted with nausea. Merlin stepped forward, hand reaching out towards his lover, but Arthur kicked the covers at him, feet scrabbling for purchase against the silk sheets.

"Arthur – Arthur, I don't understand..."

Dangerously close to falling off the bed, Arthur let out a noise akin to a sob, eyes wide and horrified as they stared back at the other man. Merlin's skin was pasty grey around his lips and eyes, translucent so he could see the empty tracery of capillaries beneath. His eyes were bloodshot and glazed; their normally violent shade of blue dulled. His lips were cracked, peeling and broken and blood-smeared; brown-red staining daubed down his chin. His breath stank of decay, and his tongue was black. His throat was cut. Black-brown-red blood was still oozing, purulence-esque, from the jugular, but the rest of the jagged wound, cut like a second mouth three inches below the original, was dry and blue-black, gaping and gasping for air with every word Merlin spoke. The rotting stench was coming from Merlin. Merlin was dead. Merlin was _dead_ , and someone had brought him back.

The former sorcerer continued to advance on the blond man, concern about his odd behaviour caricatured on the corpse's face, and Arthur could not help but put his hand to his own throat. He was surprised – and little scared – to find how much he was shaking. Merlin was _dead_ , and he did not know it. Merlin – what had been Merlin – mimicked Arthur's gesture, his fingers dipping into the wound. In past experience with reanimated corpses, Arthur hoped that this would be one that would die once realising that it should be dead. Merlin – Arthur choked at the thought of life without the gangly sorcerer – would not want to continue on in life as something less than human. But maybe he had not realised he was dead, and his magic was animating his body; but his magic stemmed from nature, and this _concept_ was abhorrent to nature, so...

What used to be Merlin pulled its fingers out of the wound, and looked in vague astonishment at the black-brown blood, thick as caramel, covering them. Heart twisting and pounding (and _oh God, how do I live without him?_ ), Arthur watched as it examined them, and dared to hope. Until it laughed Merlin's light-hearted, carefree laugh – the one that sounded like the wind in the mountains on a clear spring morning, the one that caused the sun to shine a little brighter – and wiped its fingers on Merlin's trousers.

"I seem to have managed to cut myself, Arthur," it said with Merlin's voice, sounding innocent and amused and slightly embarrassed all at the same time. Arthur's heart stopped beating. It tilted Merlin's head in a way that would be inviting, and Merlin's half smile graced its lips. Arthur thought he was going to be sick. "Kiss it better?" it asked, stepping closer and climbing onto the bed. Arthur backed away, unable to think of what he should so, regretting his sensuous but defenceless habit of sleeping naked. He fell backwards off the bed; his head snapped back against the hard stone floor. Pain exploded through his skull, and he could not focus. Not that it mattered too much, because he could not see any light source and was in almost complete darkness. He tried to raise his hands to his aching head, to check if the wetness he felt there was blood or tears – he'd had worse knocks, far worse, but he need to regain some sense of normalcy, and the pressure of his hands on his skull would at least let him know he was _real_ – but they would not come up farther than halfway. There was pressure on his wrists, and he could not feel the floor bite them when he let them fall. He was chained.

Hand and foot, leaving him very little room for manoeuvre. But he suspected that was intentional.

He could not think straight. He mind was throbbing and it felt like someone had thrown up in his mouth. As some of his senses began to return the first thing he realised was the cold. It was sheet, bitterly cold, despite his cell being shielded from the elements, or else it was an uncommonly clear and calm night. He could not feel his fingers or his nose, and he was pretty sure that he had frost bite in all exposed areas of his body. The pain that jolted through him when he tried to move his feet stabbed at his fogged mind, sharpened it; he was grateful only for a few moments, however, as his newly-awakened mind could finally register the smell of his cell.

It stank. _He_ stank. Everywhere, the stench of filth pressed against him. He moved, rolled his face to one side in a vain, futile attempt to avoid the smell; even with the cold dampening it, it was still almost too much to bear. He moved, shackles clanking, and realised the cause of the smell. It was him. Arthur Pendragon was lying in a small, dark, dank cell, chained in his own filth and faeces. And no one was coming to rescue him.

The door, somewhere, creaked open, but Arthur could not see it. Either his sight was more badly affected than he had thought, or the room behind was dark as well. He heard footsteps, felt a presence in front of his face. A voice permeated his sluggish brain.

"Open your eyes, Pendragon." Open his eyes? Surely they were already open – that was obvious, as he had surveyed his surroundings. "Pendragon! Open your eyes!" The voice was female, smooth as silk but currently harsh-edged in anger and impatience. Arthur tried to place the voice, tried to speak, to tell her that his eyes were open, and maybe it there was more light in this damned place she'd be able to see that; but he found he could no more speak than he could see. His mouth felt as if his was chained closed; he struggled against the sensation, tried to force a sound from his throat, only to be forced to stop by the sudden thrust of water, colder than the air, over his face. He could feel it freezing on his skin, expanding the cracks in his lips, clotting his eyelashes like blood, settling in the nooks of his face and torso. It crackled when he breathed.

She did not touch him; this confused Arthur somewhat. Surely, if she wanted him to obey her so badly, then she would slap him, or kick him, or _something_. There was another person in the cell, now. Arthur could sense him, a bitter taste on the underside of his tongue. He feared him, instinctively.

"You're wasting your time." The boy's – teenager's – voice was light and sing-song and as liquid honey, rippling over Arthur's skin with a sensation of warm, soft hands, and despite the acerbic fear clenching his stomach and scalding his throat he felt drawn to that voice. There was something achingly familiar about it, and something deep and primal and unknown in him yearned for it. "He won't answer to you." The woman spat something at the boy that Arthur did not understand – Gaelic, perhaps – before he felt warm breath scald his cheek, melt the ice encrusted there. "It's time to open your eyes, Arthur," he murmured, his voice all sweet seduction and innocence combined, and Arthur responded instantly, Pavlovian. He opened his eyes, and blinked against the harsh whiteness of the sky above him.

He sat up, slowly, feeling the back of his head and grimacing at the flight of stairs he was lying at the bottom of. _One hell of a fall_ , he thought, wincing as he tenderly felt the pre-swelling on his head where he had cracked it against the stone. Carefully, taking his time, well aware of the effects a nasty knock can have, he got to his feet and looked around him.

The sky was white with clouds, grey at the edges, and the wind was whipping up the waves as it streaked towards the island. Arthur drew his woollen coat closer around him, shoulders hunching forwards against the cold as it sought out his flesh through the fibres of his clothes, nipping tiny, ice teeth against his skin. His coat and trousers flapped out behind him as he watched the waves crash into the rocks in front and below him, hurling themselves into oblivion without a backwards glance. He could understand Gwen's love of the sea, with all its wild fury and gentle caresses. It chilled his fingers and flesh and bones, and brought a giddy buzz to his thoughts, thundered its beauty and ferity in his heartbeat.

Reluctantly, and not without difficulty, he dragged his gaze away from the grey, foam-topped giants and turned towards the staircase. He began to climb the rough-hewn, stone steps, keeping one eye on his footing; the sea spray washed these steps, making them slippery and treacherous to the unwary.

It was a long, twisting climb, and Arthur felt the cold as a cooling touch against the sweat on his back as he reached the summit; the stairs switch-backed up the rock face to its destination, some parts becoming completely exposed to the open sky. It was on one of these, Arthur supposed, that he had slipped and fallen; certainly the footing was bad enough. The steps, whilst clearly a work of great undertaking and craftsmanship, where not hewn level at many points, making the open points even more dangerous. It was clearly easy enough for even someone like Arthur to fall at one of these points; what confused him was a nagging sensation of something missing or forgotten, the fleeting idea forming that surely, someone should have leapt down the steps after him.

This teasing at the back of his mind caused his concentration to slip, momentarily, but he recovered himself with a sudden thumping of his heart, and continued still more carefully on his way up the rock face.

Reaching the peak, he stepped out onto a wide, flat surface, scarred and scored and cross-hatched to aid with grip; Arthur wondered why this surface was so affected, whilst the more dangerous stairs were left slip-smooth. He walked forward, squinting around him, and then back at the stairs behind him. There was nothing atop the rock; so why had anyone bothered to carve the steps out in order to reach it?

"Arthur," said a voice, startling him.

There was someone else up there with him; and small, slight, dark-skinned girl, her unruly hair coming free from its pinning as the wind ravaged it. He recognised her, clutched desperately at the name that fluttered free: "Gwen?"

"Arthur," she said, not stepping nearer to him, not stepping away from the edge of the flat space. "You -"

"Fell," he said, interrupting her, "yes; Gwen, what is the _point_ of this place?"

"It is -" she paused, kept her gaze on Arthur; it was a look he recognised, a careful, worried look, like she was not certain whether he would pounce - "a place of refuge," she said, eventually.

"Refuge?" Arthur repeated, looking around at the barren sky above them and the tempestuous sea below. "From what? There's _nothing here_."

"Arthur," she said again, still not stepping away from the edge, still not taking her careful gaze from him, "you -"

"Fell, _yes_ , Gwen, thank you for caring, but -"

"Look below," she said, interrupting him. He stared at her, uncomprehending. She gave no more explanation, and with an exasperated exhalation he swung around and marched back to the edge (although as he neared it his march became more of a careful picking of the safest path). He leaned over, praying the wind did not unbalance him; he would not survive a fall from this height.

"What, exactly, am I supposed to be -" he stopped. His heart stopped, his breath died in his throat. Below, on the distant floor of the island, was Morgana. Her body was broken, twisted by the fall; there was dark staining running through rivulets towards the sea, where the waves took it and cast it deep below the surface.

"You fell, Arthur," came Gwen's voice from behind him, and now she sounded desperate and not a little afraid. "You fell, like Morgana. You _fell_. You should not..."

"I -" Arthur forced down the vomit rising in his throat, the tears drying his eyes, "I guess the universe isn't done with me yet."

"No." Gwen's voice was wrecked, ripped from her like a sob, and he turned in astonishment to see her still standing on the edge. "It needs – Arthur, the refuge – sacrifice..."

His mind filled in the blanks in her broken sentences. He noticed again how close she was to the edge, and recalled his early fear. _He would not survive a fall_.

"Gwen," he said, worried and placating at the same time, "Gwen, come here." He was crossing towards her as he spoke, not moving too quickly but gliding across the surface as you would towards a frightened animal.

"Arthur," she said again, and darted towards him. Relief exploded in his chest, to be replaced by confusion and she kissed him, quickly and roughly. "Don't forget me," she whispered, breath warm against his face. She leant backwards, and Arthur reached out to grab her with a shout that the wind snatched and whirled away as Gwen fell, body slamming into the rocks and slipping into the sea. Arthur choked, breath stolen by the wind. He stared below, body swaying as the wind buffeted him, cuffed him and tried to make him go over.

"Arthur," said a voice from behind him. He turned, slowly, his boots slipping against the stone, despite the grip etched into it. Seeing who had spoken, he almost took a step back, a step off the edge.

Blood ran through the cross-hatching towards him, running in tiny streams across the stone. The trail began at the top of the steps, and undoubtedly ran all the way down it as well. Morgana lay there, head at an unnatural angle, too many joints in her arms, bleeding from her eyes and nose and mouth. Her lips parted, and his name fell from them again, voice as sweet and soft as it ever was and a complete paradox to come from such a broken face.

"Morgana," he replied, voice shattered and stuttering and broken. His foot twitched, trying to back away.

Morgana's broken, bloodied, snow-white arms reached forwards, fingertips finding grip on the stone and pulling her forward, towards Arthur. His mind screamed at him to run, run, get away – but he was frozen. He was terrified. His heart was aching.

"You forgot me, " she said, dragging her twisted, mangled body across the space. "Don't forget me."

"No," he gasped, and stepped backwards. The wind took him, whipping him out and down, smashing his body into the ice-cold of the sea below. Water closed over his head, the shock forcing his breath out of him. Automatically, his head jerked upwards, and he heard the clatter of his manacles as his muscles tensed with all-consuming shivers that racked through him.

"You will answer me." The woman's voice sifted through his frozen brain, and he realised she was standing next to him again. "I don't care what _he_ says." This last said closer to his ear, vicious and hissed. "I'm not his _lackey_. I am -"

"Having fun?" Again, with the strange sensation of relief and exhaustion that accompanied hearing that voice, even now, spoken with danger lacing every syllable; he sank down, wrapped up in it, welcoming the oblivion that beckoned. Distantly, he heard the woman's voice, sharp and angry, and the boy's, smooth and dark as chocolate; they were arguing. This information did not please him as much as it should have done; his captors were falling out, which should make it easier for him to escape. But he could not summon the energy to care. He let himself slip further into the blackness.

He opened his eyes, and felt his lungs burning. He gasped out, watched his breath escape in a flurry of bubbles, and forced his eyes closed against the stinging sea water.

There was light in the room, now, bright and brilliant and shining and not a little terrifying. He heard the woman hiss and spit like a cat when caught and cornered and afraid; he heard the boy speak, and his ears craned to catch the words that fell like fresh-fallen dew.

"Hello, brother," he said, voice soft and sultry and full of something Arthur could not place.

The light grew, crackled, changed. "I am not your brother," it replied, and Arthur found himself torn between their voices. The boy's was so gentle and intoxicating, whilst the light's was fraught and angry and harsh; but the light's contained something that caused Arthur's spirit to lift, slightly. And there was something in both of them, something that trickled into his blood and warmed him against the all-encompassing darkness.

"But we are the same," replied the boy, voice coy now. "Come, Emrys, you cannot tell me you haven't felt it too."

"Leave," said the light, the air burning like ozone; Arthur felt his breath crackling in his throat. "Now."

He heard the woman leave, but the boy spoke again. His voice was liquid laughter. "You cannot beat me, Emrys. I am more powerful. I always have been."

"You don't want to try that theory, _boy_ ," the light spat, the ozone scent coming even more strongly now, derision laden onto the last word. Even though it was not directed at him, Arthur felt himself flinch away from it.

"No," said the boy, voice thoughtful rather than afraid. "Not yet." And then he was gone, and the light was wrapping itself around Arthur, lifting him up and up into the morning sky.

 

There was nothing more Merlin could do.

When he had made it back to Winchester with Arthur, limp and lifeless, in his arms, the first thing Lancelot had done was reach for the phone for Gaius. And then remembered that Gaius was dead. Gwen, noticing Lancelot's sudden lack of function as the knowledge that there was _no one they could call_ to help Arthur sank in, stepped in quickly to help Merlin carry the blond man into the bedroom, where she wrapped him swiftly and securely in blankets and shooed Merlin out of her way as she made up every hot water bottle and substitute thereof she could find.

Merlin hovered helplessly as Gwen scurried back and forth from the bathroom and kitchen; she snapped Lancelot out of his frozen state and set him to work helping, but Merlin she had pushed gently out of her way.

"Merlin, please. Let us do this. Get some rest."

But he could not rest. He could do nothing but stand near the doorway into the room that he and Arthur shared as the girls bustled in and out, barely speaking; he was a bundle of nervous energy, panic lurking just on the edges of his consciousness and damn, he could not remember when he had last slept. Ever since he had discovered that Arthur was gone, that Arthur had not come home after they had that _stupid_ fight (Arthur was everything, will always _be_ everything, nothing he should say should affect that. Why could not Arthur see that? Why did he have to bring _that_ up?), it was all Merlin could do to keep himself in a semblance of control. But then, in the beginning, he had had a clear goal, a clear set of priorities and _something to do, Goddamnit_. Towards the end of his search, of course, he had become angry and terrified and desperate because Arthur had just dropped off the edge of the Earth; but then he had found him, and everything was going to be okay.

"Everything is going to be _okay_ , Merlin." It was Gwen. She was standing next to him, her hand on his arm, her eyes shining with tears mirroring his own. "He's going to be _fine_."

He stared at her, wild-eyed, before blinking and turning away slightly, just so her hand fell from his arm as he knocked the tears from his eyes and pinched his nose, running his hand down his face and giving her what he hoped was a convincing grin. "Yeah. Yeah, 'course he is."

"'Cause this is _Arthur_ we're talking about, remember?" Gwen's lips twitched slightly in the corners; an almost smile. "The most stubborn man in the universe? And besides," she added, wrapping her arms around his neck and speaking soft and low into his ear, "I've never known him to walk away from someone he loves."

Merlin let her squeeze him, once, before backing away with a quiet, "thank you" that, if anything, broke Gwen's heart more than the hopelessness and anguish written across his face. She nodded, once, and turned back to the bedroom. Merlin, alone in the living room, gripped the wall with one hand and bent double as he tried to hold in the huge, throbbing, sobbing screams that were welling up in his chest; he could not go in to see Arthur. He left the house.

 

He knew what he must look like to passers-by: a tall, pale, thin man, with an angular face and too-big ears, he got strange looks sometimes anyway; but now he was drawn and shaking and his eyes were like bruises in his face. The sky above him boiled and rumbled with thunder and lightning exploded across the sky, before immediately twisting itself out and fading and then slamming together again with a sound like cannon fire. The wind whirled around him, ripping at his exposed hands and fingers and face, whistling through gaps in bricks and creating mini tornadoes in the gutter. Rain fell, blanketing everything and soaking to the bone at the first touch; great sheets of rain that fell like the ocean tumbling out of the sky. Where it touched Merlin it steamed, giving him a strange halo. People stepped around him like he was plague-ridden, and no one wanted to look at him.

"You could be a little more conspicuous, you know; but ten out of ten for effort."

He looked left, up. Sitting on a wall dividing a carpark from the street was a girl about his age – she was soaked through, and looked ridiculously happy at the fact, although her cigarette where it dangled from her fingers was bone dry. He stopped, frowned, and summoned up a name.

"Maeve."

"Xanthe," she replied, and he took a moment to realise that she was correcting him.

"Sorry," he said, numbly and monotone, more out of habit than anything. She shrugged.

"Yeah, well. We are twins." Xanthe swung herself forward and off the wall, landing neatly besides him. Fag between her lips, she looked up at the tumultuous sky as she took a drag, before looking sideways at Merlin with a slight grin. "So, all this isn't just to get my attention?" She waved a hand, indicating the wild storm that surrounded them. "Honestly, Merlin; I don't know whether to be offended or relieved."

"This?" Merlin looked around at the weather as if noticing it for the first time. "I'm – I'm not doing this."

Xanthe rolled her eyes. "Yes, you _are_. Because I'm not. And there's no one else anywhere near here with the juice to – and before you say anything, _this storm is not natural_. I've been around long enough, kid."

Merlin's forehead creased between his eyebrows as his brain processed the information. "Oh. Sorry. Um-" he looked upwards, and tried to stop the storm. Nothing happened.

" _Merlin_ ," said Xanthe, with such fond exasperation that reminded Merlin of Arthur and Morgana. His heart ached. "You're an elemental sorcerer. Your magic stems from nature. So, nature reacts to you. Which means that there's something really funky going on inside that head of yourn, else we wouldn't be having this weather." She cocked her head to one side, smoke falling from between her lips; curiosity. "Kid..."

"Arthur won't wake up." The words tumbled from him in a rush, as if the faster he said them the less they would hurt. "He won't wake up, and there's nothing I can do."

Xanthe's lips pursed, every-so-slightly. "I can't help," she said, sternly, firmly. "I'm neutral, remember? I don't interfere." Merlin looked at her, expression disbelieving and sardonic. She grinned. "Okay. So, there was that _one_ time." Merlin's expression did not change, and Xanthe rolled her eyes. "Shut up. Okay, fine. I'll see what I can do."

"I didn't come here for that," he said, grateful nonetheless.

"I know." Xanthe shrugged, a loose rolling of the shoulders that he had never seen on anyone else. "But I figure I still owe you for that thing with the guy – so now we're even. 'Kay?"

He nodded, a single motion of the head. The wind had stopped. He had not noticed.

She hesitated, and then said, "Merlin. Ector – it wasn't him that took Arthur."

"I know," he said, looking at her. It seemed like she was fighting to get the words out; like some greater influence was holding her back. "He was there." Merlin did not say who "he" was. He did not need to.

"It's just -" she stopped, choked and glared at the sky. "Damnit – Kilgharrah – remember the first time you let him go."

"I remember," he replied, looking at her strangely. Xanthe was more than half-faerie; more a natural magical being than he was; what could bind her tongue so? "But he's bound anew – fuck, Xan, you've got me speaking like him, now." She grinned, though it was weak and loose, with only a spark of her usual mischief behind it. Something was worrying her, and she was trying not to show it. Which meant that it was bad. "Xan, I'm sorry about Maeve."

She shrugged again, lighting a new cigarette with a snap of her fingers (the tip glowed scarlet, casting her face into shadow and light against her hair, and Merlin thought he caught a glimpse of her true nature behind her eyes). "It was a long time ago. Immortality's like that." He nodded, face as closed as hers, and as he turned to go all he saw for a moment was a young woman, standing in the rain with a cigarette between her fingers, staring at the sky. She looked small, and scared, and cold. Then she caught his eye, and blew smoke at him. "Go home, little sorcerer! Your king awaits you."

 

"Where the _fuck_ have you been?"

Merlin almost flinched – Gwen never swore – even though he knew she was only angry because she had been worried. Lancelot lurked in the entrance to the kitchen, glancing from Gwen to Merlin, a cup of tea in each hand.

Not looking at her, Merlin stepped into the living room, dripping, his clothes and hair and skin remembering that they were meant to be wet on the last five minutes before reaching the house. "I went to see Xanthe."

Gwen's eyebrow's shot up into her hair; Lancelot retreated further into the kitchen. "I've been worried sick, your – the man you love is lying in that room – and you've been off gallivanting with _faerie queens_? That is too rich, Merlin."

He met her gaze, now, exhausted and not wanting to fight. "She isn't a faerie queen, Gwen," he said, voice tired and monotone.

"That's not the _point_ , Merlin..."

"Who's Xanthe?" asked Lancelot suddenly from the kitchen. Gwen half-turned, answering his question with a dismissive flick of her wrist.

"A friend of Morgana's."

Merlin twitched an eyebrow. "Morgana's?"

"Yeah," said Gwen, defensively. "What -"

"Nothing," he interrupted, quickly, and his gaze slid towards the bedroom door. "How – how is he?"

Gwen's anger melted. She could never be mad for long, anyway, and the fond expression she now held was one Merlin always saw whenever she thought he and Arthur were being _sweet_ (something Arthur vehemently denied ever happening, but which Merlin found quite amusing). "He woke up just before you got here." She opened the door to the bedroom, saying before Merlin entered, "we haven't been in to see him yet. We thought you'd want to be the first one."

Merlin gave a fleeting, grateful smile before slipping into the darkened room. Arthur was lying in the bed against the far wall, swathed and swaddled in blankets. Merlin grinned, slightly, at the thought of Gwen wrapping him in every sheet they owned; looking down at Arthur (who, despite was Gwen had said, had his eyes closed; but he had no reason to believe that Xanthe would fail him), he noted the blue-greyness that surrounded his lips and eyes, but he did not have a temperature and his body was warming rapidly, but not uncontrollably. As far as he could tell, Arthur was going to be fine, and that melted the edges of the huge dark hole in his chest, just a little.

He was tempted to not wake Arthur up, but he resisted the impulse. "Arthur," he said, quietly, and watched with relief blooming in his stomach as the blond man's eyes flickered open and focussed on him. "Hey," he said, grinning uncontrollably and hoping desperately that he was not going to cry. "How are you feeling?"

"Cold," Arthur replied, watching Merlin with a slightly – confused? It must be the state of half-consciousness that Merlin had found him in – expression. "But, warmer. Warming up. Um -"

"Do you know who took you?" Merlin interrupted, checking Arthur's pulse and temperature despite himself. "What he wanted? How long you were there?"

"Uh – no. No, wait – Ector? Something about Ector..." Arthur frowned, staring at the ceiling, obviously trying to remember. "I dunno. What he wanted, or how long I was there – wherever. Look, are you the doctor? Sorry if you've been in before, but I was asleep for days, see, and -"

Merlin stared at him, uncomprehending, and at that moment Gwen bustled in with more tea. She clearly felt they had had long enough together to have done the 'whole macho-tears-thing'. "I thought you two might like some tea, especially as you'll probably be in here for some..."

"Gwen," interrupted Arthur, loudly. "Gwen, is this the doctor? He won't tell me who he is."

Gwen almost dropped the tray. "What? A-Arthur, this is Merlin. _Merlin_." Arthur raised his eyebrows and tilted his head slightly, clearly the name meant nothing to him. "You – you don't remember Merlin?"

"Come off it, Gwen. Seriously – it's bad enough that my name's Arthur, let alone that I'd have a – friend" (he glanced at Merlin, unsure, and Merlin felt his whole world fall away from beneath his feet) "- called _Merlin_. That is a _bit_ rich, you've got to admit."

Merlin stared at him. Gwen looked from Arthur to Merlin, confused and afraid, and Merlin spun on his heel and slammed, fell, out of the room. Lancelot was on the other side, tried to ask what was wrong as Merlin gasped out, "Xan." And then roared at the ceiling, " _Xan_!" Lancelot grabbed hold of his upper arms, holding him back from smashing the house – not that a mere display of force could stop Merlin if he wanted to wreck everything.

"Merlin! What happened?"

Merlin sagged forward, the ache in his chest constricting his breathing. "He – he doesn't _remember_ me. _He doesn't remember_."

"What?" Lancelot was confused, worried, and Gwen came out of the bedroom looking close to tears as Merlin grabbed Lancelot around the shoulders and yelled in his face, his heart breaking into a thousand tiny pieces, " _he doesn't remember me_! Why the fuck does he remember _you_ " he glared at Gwen, who could not speak, her heart was in her mouth, "and not remember _me_?!"

"Don't you turn on Gwen -" Lancelot began, hotly, before the air changed.

"You _cannot_ be blaming _me_ for this!"

Gwen almost had a heart attack; Merlin thrust Lancelot away and wheeled to face Xanthe, who had appeared the in the middle of the living room, wet and white and angry and scared. " _He doesn't remember me_!"

"I got that the first time you screamed it at me, thanks," Xanthe yelled back, sarcastic anger loading every syllable (Gwen noticed her hands shaking, wondered who she was and why she seemed so close to tears). "But that's _not my fault_."

"How is it _not your fault_?!" Merlin roared. "Of course it's _your fault_. Who the fuck _else_ could it be?"

"Did you maybe consider that he wasn't _supposed_ to wake up?" Xanthe replied, lightning and solar flares dancing at her fingertips. "That maybe you were _wrong_? But _of course not_ , you're _Merlin-fucking-Emrys_ , the boy who lives forever, you can never be _wrong_."

"Don't take that tone with me!" Merlin's voice changed, got deeper, echoed in the sky and in the pit of Lancelot's stomach. "He's _Arthur-fucking-Pendragon_. He's supposed to wake up! You go on and on about the fucking _balance_ , and he's the fucking _scales_ , Goddamnit! Without Arthur, there _is_ no balance!"

"You think I don't know that?" Xanthe's bodily was flickering around the edges, her shadow warping to become a million different things, most of which terrifying and unrecognisable. "I've seen things that could curl even your fucking hair, boy. Did you maybe think that Arthur was supposed to wake up _on his own_? But _no_ , as soon as _Merlin Emrys_ can't do something, it's got to be fucking _awful_ , so he goes running for help, running to _me_ , and as soon as something goes wrong then of course it's all _my fault_."

"If you're so fucking perfect, fucking powerful, then get in there and _put it right_. Make him fucking _remember_! You said yourself, _something is coming_ , and -"

"I. Never. Said. That." Xanthe's voice was flat, but Gwen heard – so faint she could have imagined it – a tremor, a thrill, beneath the surface.

Merlin waved a hand, impatient, exasperated. "I heard you think it, whatever..."

" _Stay out of my head, witch-boy_." Xanthe's words rumbled around the room, and fire and light and pure, pitch darkness crackled from her lips.

"Make him remember." Merlin's voice was flat and angry and his eyes were like twin coals burning bright and furious in his face.

Xanthe stared at the sorcerer, and even Lancelot could see something break behind her eyes. "Some things I cannot fix," she said, and her voice was small and sad and lost and yearning and desperate and then she was gone, and Merlin was left standing in the middle of the room, shocking slamming into his eyes and making them water. All the mirrors in the house shattered.

"No," he said, disbelieving, defiant. "No! There's got to be _something_!" He stared around the living room, seeing nothing, chest heaving and cheeks wet, before charging out of the house like a man possessed.

When he was gone and the static had gone from the air, Lancelot looked at Gwen. "Morgana's?" he said.

Gwen stared back at him, and he registered everything he was feeling within them. "I didn't know," she whispered turning to look at the door which was bouncing off its hinges, buffeted by the wind that whipped up around the house. The storm was back. "I – I didn't know."

 

Merlin was drenched. His body seemed to remember, eventually, that rain was supposed to make one _wet_ , and soon after that realisation he was as wet as the huddled figures that scurried past him to their various destinations. He did not know where they were going, even if he cared; it was a strange sensation, hearing Xanthe's thoughts as he had. He attributed it to them being so Goddamn _loud_.

He knew, now, that the weather was his fault. It was due to him that the cars that drove past him had their wipers on full and were plowing bow waves down the road, were dangerously close to hydroplaning. He could not bring himself to care. Could not bring himself to think of anything outside of this gaping hole in his chest that was swallowing everything around it, eating away at him, like a black hole.

There was something wrong with his heart; it was as if he had lost it, somewhere, and it was swirling in a drain cover, buffeted by the torrents falling from the sky. But he still ached, furiously and horrifically, in the space where his heart had been. He wondered if, maybe, he had actually removed it, in a vain attempt to quell the throbbing that was tearing at his soul, and found himself glancing down at his chest to see if there was a bloody wound seeping through his shirt.

There was not. He was not sure whether he was glad or sad.

Xanthe had been his last resort. That was her point, her _purpose_ , in his life at least; he was not aware what the true reason for her existence was. She was as against the fabric of reality as he was, but both of them still walked the earth, whole and hearty, for the most part. It was not her oddity that singled her out as the final place he would go to, for that would be arrogant and hypocritical; rather the fact that she was not entirely to be trusted. Her magic, powerful though she may be, was not as constant and under control as his. Her magic was more _her_ than she was, much of the time.

And, to be fully correct, Xanthe was not precisely the last place that he could find help; more, she was the last person that he was willing to go to. There were other places, other people, who could help him. Xanthe may be the single most powerful entity in the known world, but she obeyed the universal laws. There were others that did not.

It was to these that Merlin would go, now. The world go could _hang_ , because he no longer wanted a part of it.

He found himself in Maeve’s prison without even realising it.

"Xan would not approve of you being here, Merlin," she said, remaining against the far wall, shrouded in darkness. She seemed to pull it around herself, as a barrier against – what? Merlin? The light? Then Merlin looked down, and saw that they were one and the same – and he could not see her face.

"I don’t care," he spat, not moving from his position. It would be all too easy to find himself bound down here with her, and he had too much to do. "She’s already failed me."

"You should listen to her, Merlin," she said. "She knows what she’s talking about."

"What, that Arthur shouldn’t have woken up? That I should have just left him sleeping? Until what – England needs him again? Fuck off."

"It wouldn’t be the first time."

"Are you going to help?" He was irritated now, using the anger to shore up against the exhaustion.

"You want _me_ to help restore a mind?" There was an edge of humour to her voice now, and Merlin was struck at how much she sounded like Xanthe. Yes, they were twins, but still. It was uncanny. And unnerving. "How ironic. And foolish." The last word struck him like a whip. "And _arrogant_ , little sorceror; I do not hold you in the same affection as my sister. She is young, and weak, and has a thing for the curiously designed."

"You’re twins," he pointed out, already with half of his mind slipping into his magic, ready to protect himself should Maeve become angry.

"She is the younger," Maeve said. "Can you not tell?"

"So you won’t help, then," he said, resigned.

"No." She did not sound sorry. It was a statement of fact. "The fabric of reality is mine to play with, Merlin, but this is something I shall not meddle with. Go find a greater fool to shatter the causality you have created."

 

Merlin found himself back on the street again, with no recollection of how he appeared there. He had the nagging feeling that Maeve had cast him from her prison; but if she could do that, then surely she would, herself, be able to leave. He considered the idea that Maeve had imposed imprisonment upon herself, as a protection for those around her. It would make more sense if it was protection for herself, but Merlin was reasonably sure that she did not understand the concept of ‘danger’ any more.

One down. He had others he could go to, each with greater reluctance than the last.

 

Gwen was lamenting that they were not in any position to seek out the origins of Arthur and Merlin’s relationship; the world was still surging around them, and they were held within the Winchester house. Still, she tried to find the epicentre of the wards that Merlin had placed into the house, as if exposing Arthur to the magic would jog his memory.

Arthur sat within the pantry, where the stones were kept warm with the supernatural resonance. He was concentrating, that much Gwen could tell; after all, it was clear that Merlin had been pretty much his entire life, and the lack of him within Arthur’s memory explained a lot of the fuzziness surrounding other important events in his life.

"Gwen?" he called, and she leant further through the doorway, looking down at him. "Who was that woman who was here earlier? I heard yelling."

"Uh –" Gwen glanced backwards, over her shoulder at Lancelot, who shrugged. "That was Xanthe. A friend of Morgana’s." She thought about this, about the encounter that had lead Merlin to slam out of the house and not return. "And Merlin’s, possibly. Although ‘friend’ might not be the best word."

Arthur nodded, frowned at the floor, and put his head in his hands. Gwen recognised the gesture, and padded over to sit next to him. "I can’t get _anything_ ," he growled. "If he was so important to me, why can’t I remember him? Not even a little? All this," he waved an arm, encompassing the walls that flickered and pulsed with magic, "it’s all _alien_ to me."

She put an arm around his shoulder, firmly, knowing that in all likelihood he was shake her off in a decidedly machismo fashion; she felt him stiffen, but then he resigned himself to the futility of ignoring her attempts to care, and put his head on her shoulder. She blew sandy hair from her face. "I know," she said, gently. "But we’ll fix it. If you want." Because that was important, she was sure. Arthur had to _want_ to remember Merlin, or else this entire exercise of futile. "Do – do you want? To remember him, that is?"

"I –" Gwen felt Arthur’s forehead wrinkle in a frown. "I guess. Yeah. But I don’t know what it is _to_ remember him. But there’s lots of stuff that’s blurred – ‘cos he’s not in them, I guess. And I want that back."

Gwen leant her head against him. "You loved him, you know," she said. "Even if you never told him."


End file.
